Les Fleurs Du Mal
by JustMcShane
Summary: An unexpected detour leads to the Doctor and Ace teaming up with the FBI to investigate a series of disturbingly specific floral-themed murders. But with Ace's increasingly strange dreams, a hyper-empathetic consultant who can't seem to empathize quite so well any more, and one Doctor Hannibal Lecter in the mix, the murders may be the least of their problems...
1. affrioler

**General warnings:** graphic violence, cannibalism (well, obviously), poisoning, description of disturbing crime scenes, mutilation, some body horror. If you think any of that may disturb/trigger you, it's probably best to turn back now.

* * *

If rape, poison, dagger and fire,  
Have still not embroidered their pleasant designs  
On the banal canvas of our pitiable destinies,  
It's because our soul, alas, is not bold enough!

~ Les Fleurs Du Mal, Charles Baudelaire

* * *

**one.  
"affrioler"**

* * *

_9.05 AM_  
_Aberdeen, Maryland_

* * *

The old power station at the edge of the city would normally have been utterly deserted.

It had been out of operation for a great deal many years, and had been slated for demolition for nearly half that amount of time. It had become obsolete – the newer power station, located several hundred miles away from the old location, ran that section of the city's power just as efficiently, if not even better. And yet, today it was absolutely crawling with people – and most of those people in question were the police.

Lower-level officers were busy pinning the standard, cliched 'POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS' tickertape when yet another car pulled up, adding to the crowd of them that were already there. Out of the car emerged three people – two men; one tall and intimidating and the other rather diminutive and holding his black-and-red umbrella like it was a walking stick; and a young woman who was tugging her badge-encrusted jacket on and hurrying to keep up with the other two.

"Everybody," said Jack Crawford, striding into the crime scene with his usual unrelenting, hurricane-like authority, "we've got company today. Say hello to Doctor John Smith and his assistant – they're from a special agency, and they're going to be helping us out with this case."

There was a general murmur of scattered hellos from the forensic team, and an Asian woman with long dark hair pulled up her lab goggles for a second to smile at them. "Hey. Welcome to the team."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said the little man, doffing his straw hat at her.

"Hi," said his companion, waving cheerily.

"Wait," said another forensic tech, pausing in his walk towards the main powerhouse of the station, "what do these guys have that Will Graham doesn't? I thought this was just another Ripper case?"

"So did I, at first," Jack admitted. "But it looks like the organization that Doctor Smith comes from thinks otherwise. And his credentials were impressive enough that I couldn't say no."

"I have some amount of unique experience in this particular type of case," Doctor Smith allowed, leaning on his umbrella and allowing a small frown to cross his face. "Hopefully it isn't what I suspect it is, but... better to be safe than sorry, hm?"

"Sounds good enough for me. Also, Will hasn't checked it out," said yet another forensic tech, nodding. "So we can't say it is another Ripper incident or not either way. When's he getting here, anyway?"

"He texted me a few minutes ago," said Jack. "Apparently Doctor Lecter's driving him here. So it shouldn't be too long. In the meantime – Katz, can you show Doctor Smith and his assistant to the crime scene? I'd do it myself, but – it looks like the press just showed up."

"Sure, I didn't get a proper look the first time round," the Asian woman said, pushing up down her goggles again, and rummaging around in her satchel. "Here, you two – gloves." She presented the visitors with two sets of rubber disposable gloves, and pulled a slight face as she started walking towards the main building. "You're going to need them."

"Cheers," said Doctor Smith's assistant, snapping hers on and hurrying to follow. "Hey, Professor; you haven't told me what's going on here, anyway. What sort of-?"

"Shh, Ace," said Doctor Smith, shooting her a warning look as he fell into step with her and the other woman. "I'll explain later."

"Oh, well, in that case," she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, and looked over at the woman who was leading them. "I'm Ace, by the way. He's the Doctor; but you already knew that. Nice to meet you."

"Beverly – likewise. I don't mind filling you in, if that's what you need," she said. "Jack can be a bit vague on the details sometimes."

"Oh, Jack's not the only one," Ace muttered, and then neatly dodged Doctor Smith's umbrella and insulted look, both of which came at her in near-synchronicity. "–Professor, I'm only joking –"

He huffed out a fond sort of sigh. "Yes, I know," he said, and turned to Beverly. "Miss Katz, a brief refresher would be most appreciated. I myself have not been to Minnesota in quite some time, and I'm nearly certain Ace never has."

"Sure thing," she said. "All right, so: cliff notes. The Chesapeake Ripper is a notorious uncaught serial killer who's been killing in sets of three for years around here. He keeps slipping through our fingers, Jack's getting furious about it, et cetera, so on and so forth. He generally kills in a dramatic, messy, almost artistic fashion – displaying his victims, making it all symbolic – and he always takes surgical trophies from his victims."

"Bet he's great fun at parties," Ace said, hopping over one of the many beds of flowers that were scattered around the premises. Apparently the fact that the power station was abandoned didn't mean the flowers there weren't flourishing.

"Very funny. Anyway, there hasn't been a Ripper strike for... a month or so, now? Which isn't unusual, sometimes he doesn't show his face for years at a time, but it's possible he's started a new streak. In which case, this is a new opportunity to catch him, if we can find the pattern."

"That seems entirely reasonable," the Doctor agreed, nodding.

"What about Graham bloke you mentioned?" Ace asked.

"Oh – Will." Beverly grinned, pushing hair out of her eyes. "He's one of our consultants. Well, our main consultant, really. He's a cool guy. He has a knack for getting into killers' heads. Super weird, but super helpful."

"He deconstructs crime scenes; reconstructs what a killer's motive might have been?" the Doctor said, looking interested. "Fascinating."

"Uh – yeah, that's more or less it, actually," said Beverly. "Except a whole lot more intense, because he kind of – becomes the killer, I guess? But only in his head." She shrugged. "Actually, I'm going to stop talking about this because I really don't like that I'm gossiping about him behind his back. Feels wrong, you know?" She stopped just before the massive double-doors that led to the central processing room of the powerplant, and rested one hand on one of the handles. "Right. Here we go – you might want to brace yourselves –"

The Doctor and Ace exchanged glances of trepidation as Beverly grunted and huffed, pushing the solid metal doors open.

There was a second or two as both of them had a chance to take in what, exactly, they were seeing. The Doctor didn't appear visibly affected by the interior of the room, apart from his mouth tightening ever-so-slightly. Conversely, Ace made a disgusted, horrified noise, and briefly closed her eyes, stepping back and shuddering slightly.

"Yeah," said Beverly sympathetically. "Not pretty, is it?"

Inside, it looked as if a bomb had gone off; and that bomb had been someone's actual literal body. The floor was almost completely covered in dark red liquid, and the walls were similarly stained. There were suspicious lumps and parts mixed into the blood and some shining white miscellania sticking out that looked like shattered, scattered bits of room was positively reeking with the scent of blood, and something else too – something almost sickly sweet.

The body at the center of the room, hanging from a metal rack in front of some broken-down machinery, and positioned in a way that implied biblical crucifixion, was apparently the source of all of the viscera – although it would be hard to imagine how any one human body could contain enough blood and parts to cover the entirety of the (rather large) room in this way. The body's features were virtually indistinguishable under all of the gore on its face and skin. It appeared as if their chest had exploded outwards – it was torn wide open, with the victim's internal organs on view for all to see.

"Jesus fucking christ," Ace said, voice void of any sort of emotion. "Why – what sort of –" She didn't finish the sentence, apparently unable to come up with anything else to say.

"Language, Ace," the Doctor chided, although without any actual recrimination in his tone, and accepted Beverly's silent offer of plastic shoe covers, slipping them on over his brown Oxfords before pulling out a hand-held flashlight from a pocket, and flicking it on. He carefully entered the scene, navigating elegantly through the pools of blood around him until he reached the center of the room and directed the beam of light he was holding at the body.

He audibly breathed in; a sharp intake of breath, and then was silent once more.

After a second, Ace and Beverly joined him, having donned protective equipment of their own. Ace was grimacing, and holding her t-shirt over her nose, but she tapped the Doctor on the shoulder. "Oi, what is it, Professor? I can see that expression on your face. What've you seen?"

He turned to her slowly, and then indicated the body, frowning. "See for yourself."

They swapped places, and she leaned in to examine the chest cavity; although not too close. It took her a second to see it, but then she frowned too. "Oh. Two hearts. That's..." She squinted. "...not natural, though. It's not connected to anything, it's like someone's just shoved it in there."

"Can't see how it would be," said Beverly, making notes on a pad as she re-examined the crime scene. "I don't think too many people are walking around with a naturally-occuring bivascular system inside them."

"Not on this planet, no," the Doctor said, and then quickly: "But, yes. Somebody rearranged the organs after death to make room for the second one. Rather neatly, actually. Presumably they obtained the heart from someone else... hm."

"Another thing," Beverly said, and politely squeezed her way in between the other two so she could point her own flashlight at the open chest explosion. "See those bottom two ribs?" The ribs were indeed also exposed, bones white against the sea of shades of red. "Yeah. They're not meant to be there. The human body only has twenty-four, and you can see if you look closely – they've just been kind of jammed into the flesh."

"So whoever killed him added an extra heart and some ribs?" Ace asked.

"And another liver," the Doctor added quietly, directing his flashlight beam to indicate the organ in question.

"I don't get it," Beverly said after another few seconds of examining the body. "We're going to have to take him back to the lab for a proper inspection, but – it looks like those three things are the only bits that were added? Literally nothing else was. It could be... symbolism, maybe, but what the hell is an extra liver supposed to symbolize?"

"Somehow, I don't believe it is symbolism," the Doctor said, and glanced around the rest of the room. "Or it's not quite the symbolism that you're thinking of."

"O...kay," said Beverly. "That was very cryptic, Doctor... Smith, was it?" She paused, briefly distracted. "Wait, are you a Doctor or Professor?"

"Professor of cryptic, unhelpful comments, maybe," said Ace.

He sighed at that, and said, "'Professor' is a nickname. Please, just call me the Doctor. Smith was my mother's name, probably."

"Okay then – just 'Doctor' it is," she said, and then, "so, do you have something that you want to share with the class? It sounds like you know what's going on here."

"I have a vague suspicion, nothing more," he said. "I believe it would be more helpful to wait for your Mr Graham's professional opinion before I begin to share my own theories."

Beverly shrugged. "All right, sure. Uh – yeah, moving on. About this blood explosion." She circled the wire frame holding the victim up, and then returned to where she had been standing previously. "I'm guessing that at least some part of this bloodbath came from whoever the second heart and liver was taken from. There's far too much of it here for it to be all from this poor guy, whoever he was. We'll need to run tests on that too. Anybody got anything else?"

"Ace?" the Doctor asked, looking at her almost expectantly.

"Uh – I smell blood," Ace said, wrinkling her nose, "which, you know, kinda obvious where that's coming from, but I also smell flowers, I think. Can anybody else, or is that just me?"

"No, it's not," said Beverly, looking around. "I assumed it was the garden outside, but now that you mention it..."

The Doctor hummed contemplatively, and then angled his flashlight down to the mess of blood and viscera currently carpeting the stone floor. He leaned down, and very carefully plucked one of the larger red-covered lumps from the ground, shaking it carefully to dislodge some amount of blood. He looked at it for a moment, and then held it out to the two women. Now that it wasn't part of the gory mess covering the floor, it was easier to see its shape.

"A flower," Beverly said.

"A lily, if I'm not mistaken," the Doctor agreed gravely, and rubbed a gloved finger across the petal. He squinted. "An orange lily, as a matter of fact. Good nose, Ace."

"Thanks, I think," she muttered, and looked around at the rest of the room. "So – the rest of these things floating in the blood-?"

"More flowers," Beverly confirmed, crouching down to pick up another one from the ground. She shook the worst of the blood off, and held it out. "D'you know what this one is, Doc?"

"Carnation," the Doctor said immediately. "I believe it may be red carnation, specifically, but it's rather hard to tell."

A few more minutes of unpleasant flower-gathering revealed that the room had been more-or-less covered in blossoms as well as blood the whole time – and in addition, there were only actually three types of flowers present – orange lily, red carnation, and begonia. Beverly quickly collected samples of all them, and then the three of them left the building in order to talk somewhere far less unsettling.

"It could be the Ripper," allowed Beverly, kneeling down to label her sample bags. "Whoever did it certainly has a flair for the dramatic."

"Indeed," said the Doctor, removing his gloves and retrieving his umbrella, which he had left leaning on the side of the building. "Although, there is something about the placement of these that seems to..." He trailed off, and tapped the umbrella's handle against his lips, evidently thinking hard.

"What, you think they're trying to communicate something through the flowers?" Ace asked. "Like a code?"

"Not quite," the Doctor said. "The art of flower-arranging has been something of a distinct language of its own since the eighteenth century. It's not too far of a stretch to consider that the culprit might have been trying to convey some particular meaning with the placement of these flowers that they've chosen to leave behind."

Beverly looked up, her eyes bright with interest. "You wouldn't happen to know the meanings of these ones, would you?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," he said. "Orange lilies can either mean hatred and disdain, or passion. Carnations in general tend to symbolize various states of love, while red carnations in particular mean something along the lines of 'my heart aches for you'. Begonias..." He hesitated for a split-second. "Well, their meaning comes from the translation of their name, as a matter of fact. French. It means–"

"Beware," said a voice from behind them.

"Yes," said the Doctor after a brief moment of silence, and turned to face the newcomer. "That would be correct."

Beverly smiled, also turning raising a hand in welcome. "Oh hey, Doctor Lecter. I didn't think you'd show up today."

Doctor Lecter – a tall, elegantly dressed man with an expression of light curiosity, or possibly amusement, writ across his features – inclined his head at her. "My apologies for interrupting," he said, his accent thick but his English excellent. "Will was with me when he received the call, and I offered to accompany him, both here and back." He regarded the two strangers with a slightly tilted head. "I do not believe I know either of you."

"I'm known as the Doctor," said the Doctor, extending a hand, and Lecter shook it firmly.

"I'm Ace – Ace McShane – hiya," Ace said, also shaking the taller man's hand.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," Lecter said, smiling at both of them. "I assume you are here to consult on the FBI's most recent case, yes?"

The Doctor nodded, and said, "you know flower theory, Doctor Lecter?"

"I dabble," he said simply, and took a few steps forwards so as to see the interior of the crime scene. He studied it for a second or two, and then turned back to the group. "I see. Most disturbing. You suspect the Ripper, no doubt."

"The thought had crossed our minds," the Doctor said. "You think differently?"

Lecter's eyes drifted off to regard the sky pensively, and then he said, "I believe I will leave the thinking up to Will, when he decides to join us. I find it pointless to begin theorizing when we do not have all the facts at our disposal."

At this, the Doctor nodded, and then fell silent, regarding the building once more.

"So, what're you a doctor of?" Ace asked.

"Medicine, initially," Lecter replied, shifting his full attention to her. "A surgeon, as a matter of fact. But currently I am a practitioner of the psychiatric arts."

"A psychologist, huh?" Ace bit her lip absently. "I guess it makes sense that you'd be at a murder scene. Someone's got to analyse the asshole that did it."

"Psychiatrist, actually," he corrected her, not ungently.

"Oh – right. Wait, what's the difference? I thought they were the same thing."

"Pedantics, some would argue," he said, mouth curving into a small smile. "In reality, the difference between the two is that a psychiatrist can be classified as a practicing medical doctor, rather than a psychologist, who has merely earned a doctorate degree."

"Huh, all right," Ace said, nodding. "So is it an interesting job, then?"

He appeared to seriously consider her question. "Overall, I would say so," he said. "I have met some truly fascinating people in the psychiatric community. And there is hardly ever a dull moment. No patient is ever the same, which makes for a great deal of variety – the spice of life, you might say."

Ace grinned. "The Professor says that too. And also, agreed. Repetition is boring."

"You live an exciting life, then?" Lecter asked. "Or you wish to, at any rate?"

"Oh, I'm definitely living it," Ace said. "Like you wouldn't believe."

Lecter hummed wordlessly in response to that, and they fell into a comfortable silence. After a moment or two, he looked up, noticing someone. "It seems that our guest of honor has finally caught up with us," he noted.

"Over here!" Beverly shouted, waving, and within a matter of seconds, a tired-looking man with messy hair and glasses approached them. One of his shoelaces was untied. It looked as if he hadn't slept properly for a great many weeks. He nodded his greetings to both Beverly and Doctor Lecter.

"The illustrious Will Graham, I presume?" the Doctor said.

The man – Will – looked at him for a second. Face impassive. "Not the word I would have chosen. But yes, that's me."

"I'm the Doctor," he said, smiling, and extending his hand to shake.

"Sure," said Will, and ignored the Doctor's outstretched hand, glancing over to Beverly and gesturing towards the main power station building. "It's in there?"

"Yep," she said, and passed him the same protective gear that she had supplied to the Doctor and Ace. "It's pretty messy. Be careful in there."

"When am I not?" Will smiled mirthlessly, and pulled on the gloves and shoe coverings. He looked over at the Doctor and Ace. "You're new? Don't come in when I'm working." Back to Beverly. "I'll only be a couple of minutes."

"Take as much time as you need," she told him. He nodded, and set off towards the main building with a sort of grim certainty in his step. He hauled open the doors, and disappeared into the bloody darkness within.

"Cheerful guy," Ace said, watching the double doors shut behind him. "What's his deal?"

"He thinks about killing people for a living, Miss McShane," Doctor Lecter said, also eyeing the building that Will had just entered. His eyes were dark with something that was very hard indeed to pin down. "I daresay that if you spent countless days perusing the insides of the darkest minds humanity has to offer, you would not be too cheerful yourself."

Ace bit her lip, looking at him. "Shit. I didn't mean it like – sorry. He's your patient?"

"Will is my friend," he said firmly. "And as such, I worry. His job is not kind to him or his continued wellbeing, as you may have guessed."

"Yeah, I can imagine," said Ace, gaze returning to the closed doors. "Or, well – I guess I can't, but..." She grimaced. "Poor guy. Can't be fun to get into the head of the person who did that."

"Yes," said Doctor Lecter thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin. "I do hope it will not disturb him too greatly – it is a distinct possibility. After all," he added, "there is something about this murder in particular that unsettles even me..."


	2. affriander

**two.** **  
****"** **affriander ****"**

* * *

_9.50 AM_  
_Aberdeen, Maryland_

* * *

The pendulum swung, flashing brightly through the darkness.

One. Will opened his eyes, mind descending into calm, and surveyed the scene before him with empty eyes. He breathed in, filling himself up with the mind of somebody who was not him, and became somebody else entirely.

Two. The blood was sucked up, rising from the floor and disappearing into nothingness, leaving rows of flowers, untouched and arranged masterfully on the floor.

Three – something stuttered, causing the pendulum to move too fast, too quickly. Something changed. Will found himself stumbling back a step, unsure. The body was gone, and so was the remainder of the blood, although he hadn't seen them disappear. The flowers were gone too, and when he blinked and looked down he saw that he was carrying a straw basket in one hand. It was filled to the brim, flowers spilling over the edge. He looked up. The wire rack that the body was to be strung up on was already in position, having been wheeled in from somewhere else entirely. He looked down. The straw basket was gone, and he was suddenly left very unsure as to if it had ever been there in the first place - was he misremembering something?

He looked down, on a whim, and there was a cat.

It was brown, small, and was sitting, quite calmly, near the base of the rack – regarding him with intelligent, bright eyes, its tail twitching absently. It could see him – see him – in a way that nothing should have been able to at this very moment.

Will took a deep breath, and closed his eyes again, trying to get back into the mindset. When he opened them once more, the cat was still there – this time with something like amusement in its cool gaze.

He stared right back at it for a moment, sure that it wasn't meant to be there. It refused to disappear.

Will decided to pretend it wasn't there. He set the pendulum into motion once more. Three.

– fingers reaching up from beneath, slowly now, softly now. Not too quick or the balance will be disturbed. The balance must not be disturbed. The balance must never be disturbed, for there are some things that even a being of this magnitude cannot interfere with. Nonetheless, there is something here that must be done, be completed to perfection. And perfection it shall be, for there is nothing less than perfect that will do for my chosen opponent. When -

\- Will gasped, taking a step back - pulling himself forcefully out of the head of whoever that had been. There was something very wrong with whatever he was trying to visualize, on a fundamental and basic level. The perspective was all wrong, for one thing - it was as if he were watching from the sidelines rather than in the driver's seat, so to speak. And he still couldn't see what had actually happened.

The cat was still there, although it had moved closer to him - only meters away, really, and still regarding him intently. Eyes bright in the darkness.

Will ground his teeth together audibly, and glared at the flayed corpse in front of him as if the victim was somehow at fault here.

He closed his eyes, and thought - thought hard. He probed as deep as he could manage, and then went even deeper, and then deeper once more.

One. Two. Three.

His head began to hurt almost instantly, and there was the feeling - subtle at first, but suddenly and sharply increasing to an unbearable, agonizing conception of WRONG - that this was not something that he was supposed to be doing.

Will sank deeper and deeper into the well of something that wasn't quite another person's mind and wasn't quite a state of consciousness, and when something inside him decided that he had gone quite deep enough, he opened his eyes, and was gratified to see that the room around him was completely empty. No blood, no flowers, no body. A clean slate, ready to be painted upon.

All right, he not-quite-thought to himself. How do we begin?

Usually it would have been instinctive. He would raise a hand, or a gun, or some other tool or weapon; anything that hadn't been there previously, and he would begin the act of murder, or torture, or defiling or demeaning or degrading; and the events would just unfold.

That was not at all what happened.

The cat tensed up, pacing in a circle to come to rest at Will's side; and Will just waited and watched as blood began to seep upwards, flowing out of the ground and pooling around his feet. Sprouts began to grow from the gory mess - weaving their way upwards at impossible speeds and growing leaves and blossoms just as fast. As he watched, an entire garden burst into bloom around him - lilies and carnations and begonias; their plants cycling through an entire lifespan within less than a minute, and dying just as quickly as they began - leaving only their flowers behind to drop into the dark red soup that covered the entire surface area of the room's floor.

There was silence for a second, and then there was a horrific bubbling and hissing sound as something else began to emerge from the thick, unforgiving earth. The head of a man. The torso of a man. The body of a man. Clean and unmarred and ripe for the picking. The ideal specimen for the presentation ahead.

He surprised himself by speaking aloud.

"Perfect," he said.

And Will Graham stood in the darkness with an imaginary cat at his heels and a conception that wasn't at all his own where his mind should have been -

\- and incredibly, he began to laugh.

(And that, of course, was where all memory ended.)

* * *

When Will emerged from the station, blinking at the sudden influx of sunlight, the scene outside was different to when he had left it. The rest of the forensic team had joined Beverly closer to the building, and had even set up a makeshift workstation to sift through the evidence on. Ace was also there, and was throwing herself wholeheartedly into helping with the investigation – she appeared to be engaging in lively debate with Zeller and Price over bloodsplatter patterns.

The Doctor and Jack Crawford were conversing in low tones, both looking deadly serious. When Jack saw that Will had finished up inside, he waved; indicating that he should come over. Will straightened the collar of his jacket, and went to comply.

On the way, he passed Doctor Lecter, who was seated quite comfortably on a nearby abandoned bench with a sketchbook resting on his knee, and a pencil in his hand. He was sketching with neat, tiny strokes, apparently intent on his work. He looked up as Will approached, although he didn't stop sketching. "Ah, Will. How was it?"

"Wet," said Will, and couldn't suppress a shiver – although he wasn't entirely sure if it was due to the cold or not. "And disturbingly floral."

"I see," he said. "I suspect you will tell me the details later. Those can wait for the moment. Tell me, are you well?"

Will looked down at his sketchbook, and saw, upside-down, that he was drawing flowers.

"Well enough," he said. "I'm going to talk to Jack – tell him what I worked out."

Hannibal nodded. "Tell me when you are finished. I will be glad to drive you home."

Will gave him a tight smile, said, "thanks," and headed across the power station courtyard.

Jack turned away from the Doctor again with an expectant look already on his face. "Well?"

"It's..." Will paused, trying to produce the right words to describe what he was thinking. "...an invitation."

"An invitation?" The Doctor didn't seem skeptical; merely intrigued.

"Either that, or a love letter." Will smiled humorlessly. "Or both, possibly. Come and play, he's saying. Play with me. It's... a demonstration, too. Trying to show whoever it is what he's capable of."

"Yeah, but how'd he do it?"

Will flinched a bit at this new voice – he hadn't seen or heard the girl, Ace, approach. "Sorry?"

"It's all well and good that our guy's trying to get a date by murdering people, but do you have any idea how he did it?" She jerked a thumb back in the direction of the station. "You don't get that amount of blood all over the floor by just stabbing a guy a couple of times."

Her bluntness was almost refreshing. Will shook his head. "No, I couldn't – I mean..." He trailed off, considering the implications of this. "I think the crime scene may have been contaminated somehow," he said, directing it at Jack. "Things were... blurred, in there. I couldn't get a proper read on how he did it, just what he was thinking at the time. And barely that."

Jack grunted, clearly disappointed, and turned away. "Do we have an ID on the body?" he called over to the forensic team.

"Not yet," somebody called back, their voice distant. "We're looking over missings persons reports from the last couple days. Nothing yet!"

"It won't matter," said Will.

"What do you mean?" the Doctor asked.

"Whoever it is that's strung up in there – they don't matter," Will explained. "Not to him. He picked the victim randomly. It's the message that's important, not the paper it was delivered on."

"We're going to have to check the victim anyway," Jack said.

"I know. But don't expect to find anything important." He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I need to know more. Get more information. Maybe then, I can..." He trailed off, and then walked away, in the direction of Beverly and the others, without continuing that thought.

Behind him, he heard Ace say, softly, " super cheerful guy, huh?" and the Doctor's whispered, chiding, " Ace, really!"

* * *

"I didn't mean it like that," Ace protested, watching Will talking to Beverly, and rubbing at her arm, where the Doctor had thwacked her lightly with his umbrella. "I just meant that he looked kind of distracted by whatever he saw in there." She turned to Jack. "Is he normally like that?"

"I..." Jack paused. "No. Not exactly."

Ace nodded, and they stood around in awkward silence for a moment or two.

Footsteps signalled the arrival of Hannibal Lecter, who was tucking his sketchbook away into an inside pocket of his jacket. He nodded at the Doctor, returned Ace's tiny wave of greeting, and said, "ah, Jack. How goes it?"

"Not too well," Jack said.

"My sincere condolences, then, accompanied by the equally sincere hopes that the investigation will improve in clarity soon. But that is not why I have approached you. If it wouldn't be too impolite of me to inquire on a personal matter...?"

"Not at all," Jack said. "Go on."

"I have been considering the notion of hosting dinner, for you and your wife," he said. "It has been far too long since I have done so. Are two two of you free any time this week?"

"I'm afraid not," said Jack. "Bella is – she is indisposed. I myself am free to come, but she won't be able to make it."

"I see," he said, looking regretful. "Give her my best wishes. I will of course be delighted to entertain you alone, of course, unless..."

He looked meaningfully across to the Doctor and Ace. There was a beat in which everybody there comprehended what he was implying, and then Jack said, "oh, you should definitely come along, Doctor Smith!" with a genuine grin spreading across his face. "And you too, Miss McShane. Doctor Lecter's parties are to die for!"

Lecter inclined his head modestly, but he was smiling. "You flatter me."

"Nonsense – your cooking is some of the finest I've ever tasted," Jack said cheerfully. "Much better than many restaurants I've been to, anyway."

"Indeed?" The Doctor looked interested. "Then I would be delighted to try it. If that's all right with you, of course," he added, looking to Lecter for confirmation.

"I would be delighted to entertain guests. It's been quite a while since I've done so. And, besides – you interest me, Doctor Smith," Doctor Lecter admitted. "I would very much like the opportunity to get to know you better. I would consider it... a distinct pleasure to do so."

"Just Doctor, please," he said. "And I you."

"Sounds like fun," Ace chimed in. "You didn't mention you cooked, Doc."

"I did not," he agreed, smiling at her. "But nonetheless, it is one of my greatest passions. I find the act of cooking both relaxing and invigorating, and I enjoy nothing more than sharing the fruits of my creation with others." He looked back at Jack. "Since dear Bella will be unable to attend, and Doctor Smith and Miss McShane will be taking her place, may I suggest that we expand the guest list and make this a full social event, of sorts?"

"That's fine by me," Jack said.

"Nothing too big, of course," said Lecter. "Just a few people to flesh things out, so to speak. Will!" The last word was spoken slightly loudly, and succeeded in grabbing Will Graham's attention. He turned from where he had been discussing something with Beverly Katz, and came over to join them.

"Yes?" he said. He sounded exhausted, and looked it, too.

"I was wondering if you would be available tomorrow evening to dine with me," he said, touching Will's arm lightly. "Jack, Doctor Smith and Miss McShane will also be attending. I would very much appreciate it if you could come."

Will looked as if he were about to decline the offer, but after a long moment, seemed to decide that it would be impolite to do so, and just shrugged. "Fine," he said.

Doctor Lecter nodded, apparently pleased by this. "In that case, I will see if Alana Bloom is also available. Six people ought to be just enough."

"Tomorrow?" Jack asked.

"Yes, if that is suitable. I will need time to procure fresh meat," he explained for the benefit of everybody present. "I already have a particular dish in mind, but I would like to be sure that I will have the time to prepare it."

"That seems perfectly reasonable," said the Doctor, "although, I have a particular dietary restriction that I fear may intersect with your menu of choice."

"I'm always willing to accomodate," Lecter said.

The Doctor tipped him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I'm strictly vegetarian."

Lecter barely blinked. "I see. Thank you for informing me; I should have asked. Miss McShane – is there anything I should be aware of?"

"For me? Nah, I'm not fussy. Or allergic." She shot him a big thumbs-up. "Anything's good."

"You're very fussy when I'm the one who's cooking," the Doctor noted quietly.

She turned and pulled a face at him. "That's 'cause you always get distracted and end up burning everything."

"I hardly think you're one to talk, considering you do the same frequently," the Doctor shot back, raising his eyebrows. He was smiling. "Need I remind you of the multiple times you have set fire to the kitchen in the last month alone?"

"Touché," she acknowledged, and then looked around at everybody else, as if becoming aware of the fact that they were in the presence of others. "Anyway – point is, Doctor Lecter seems to know what he's doing, and if his cooking's as good as Jack says–"

"It is," said both Jack and Will.

"–well, there you go. I think I can trust him with my food, yeah?"

"Your trust in me is very much appreciated," Lecter said, with a little bow of his head. "I will do my utmost to live up to it."

Beverly approached, holding several blood-drenched sample bags in one hand. "All right," she said loudly, "now that we've all finished making dinner plans, can someone give me a hand with the equipment? I want to get everything back to the lab before this afternoon."


	3. fumé

**three.** **  
****"fumé"**

* * *

_4.34 PM_  
_?_

* * *

Ace entered the TARDIS with a sigh that was half-exhaustion and half-relief. She shrugged off her rucksack and hung it on the hatstand, even as the Professor entered behind her, shutting the door behind him. The console room brightened around them, and the room hummed with life.

"Thoughts?" he asked as he removed his hat.

"Maryland's a lot more exciting than I thought it would be," she said. "Also – that murder was definitely a message for you. I mean, two hearts? Twolivers? And the extra ribs?"

"Me, or another one of my people," the Professor agreed absently. "But I agree. With the context..." He looked at the console, made as if to step towards it, and then turned around. "I feel as if I'm forgetting something."

"Aren't you always forgetting something?" she asked, grinning, but when she saw the look on his face, she immediately sobered. "...it's not something important, is it?"

He twirled his umbrella from one hand to another, looking pensive. "Well, considering I can't remember what it is – it's rather hard to tell, really." After another moment of this, he shrugged and quirked a small smile in her direction. "I'm sure I'll remember it in time. But for now..."

"I was gonna go pull out some books on flower language," Ace said. "See if we can't get on top of whatever this bloke's talking about with the shrubbery."

"A very good idea," he agreed. "And I shall run some tests of my own. Miss Katz kindly lent me some samples from the crime scene – there's plenty of time before tomorrow for research to be done, and I don't intend to waste a second of it."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" Ace said.

"Not while we're around, no," he agreed, smiling – and then frowned as something on the console sparked and flickered. The lights all around them briefly dimmed, and then rose back to full power, and then kept on brightening until both of them were wincing and shielding their eyes to avoid being dazzled by the overwhelming intensity of the unnatural glare.

"What's going on?" Ace asked, stumbling forwards to get a good grip on the edge of the console to steady herself, as the Professor tried to manipulate the dials and switches blindly, apparently without much success.

"Some sort of energy overload," he called back, and there was a grunt of annoyance, or maybe exertion; followed by the click-click-click of a series of switches being thrown, and then a distant, tinny alarm going off from somewhere deep within the TARDIS. "An outside force – an intruder of some sort –"

She felt her way around so she was right next to him, and said, "all right, so, can we track whoever's doing it? Reverse the signal?"

"I can hardly do anything if I can't see, " he exclaimed, and thumped the console sharply with a fist, which seemed to do something. Almost immediately, there was a large explosion, and not the good kind, either. They were thrown back across the console room inelegantly, both hitting the far wall with assorted noises and exclamations of pain.

Ace sat up first, and saw that although the lighting was now back to normal and seeing wasn't difficult any more; the console was now actually on fire, which was never a good thing.

She staggered to her feet, and went over to the Professor, who was lying near the door, not moving.

"Oi," she said, shaking his arm, "hey. Professor, get up – I can't remember where we put the fire extinguisher."

It took a full thirty seconds of shaking him and prodding him – and in that time the blaze from the centre of the room became more and more acrid and worrying – but he did eventually open his eyes and try to irritably swat her away, which probably meant that he was all right.

"You okay?" she asked, just in case, and added, "also, fire extinguisher?" because that was really getting to be a genuine issue now and she wasn't entirely sure that he had heard her the first time.

He sat up, frowned, and said something that she couldn't understand in the least, in a language that was fluting and melodic and that she couldn't possibly mimic if she tried. She shrugged and shook her head, indicating incomprehension.

There was a beat as they both processed what was going on.

He said something else in the same language – which, she quickly realized, was probably Gallifreyan – and levered himself to his feet with the help of his umbrella. As soon as he was fully upright, he headed over to the hatstand, and pushed it aside to grab the fire extinguisher that was tucked neatly behind it. He tossed it to Ace, who caught it easily, pulled the pin, and started putting out the blaze that had enveloped the console.

"The translation circuit is broken," he said, although his voice was strange – his accent no longer Scottish, more like a weird neutral intonation that didn't seem to be from anywhere in particular.

"I figured, yeah." The console was more-or-less completely extinguished by now, although it was covered in chemical foam. "What can we do?"

"Fix it," he said succinctly, then something beautiful yet unintelligible, then, "multimeter."

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and went to find the multimeter, no doubt buried in the small pile of tools that was always heaped at the side of the console. "No chance that we're going to be able to track them down by tracking the signal, or whatever?"

"Later," was the short response. "Fixing this is... priority. It's a priority." He grimaced, and then said something in Gallifreyan that she was nearly certain was a curse word judging by the intensity of its pronounciation. She noted it down for later use, mentally, and passed him the multimeter. "Hold this," he said, thrusting several wires into her hands, and he worked in silence for a moment while she did so.

"You sound weird," she told him frankly.

He paused to look up at her, and smiled, although it was a bit strained. "So do you," he said, and then, "hammer."

Still holding the wires in one hand, she ducked down and felt around through the toolbox until she found the most hammer-like object there. She pulled it out and slid it across the ground to him. He nodded, snatched it up, and brought it down sharply and suddenly against the base of the console. Ace actually jumped back at the sudden noise and the flash of light that exploded all around them – not quite as intense as before, and considerably shorter in duration.

" Why, " she demanded, blinking away dark spots as the light faded.

He held up a finger, the universal gesture for just a moment , and clicked two cables into place before reaching out to take the wires from her. "Duct tape," he said.

She hunted through her rucksack for a second or two, and came up with a half-used roll of multipurpose electrical tape. She tossed it in his direction; he caught it. "Best I can do," she said. "I can probably find some in the labs –"

"No. This will –" he began, and twisted something off from the console before taking the wires she had been holding, hooking them up with another set of wires dangling from the console. There was another spark, although this time it was only in her head and just made her wince slightly.

"That should hold," said the Professor, sounding back to normal, which was a very good thing – hearing him speak with anything but a Scottish accent was nothing short of uncanny. He sat back, and closed his eyes briefly, puffing out a slight sigh of relief. After a second, Ace joined him on the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest. "All right. We done?"

"For now, hopefully." He sounded sort of tired – not exhausted, but definitely not at his best.

She nodded. "So what just happened?"

"The psychic circuits are damaged," he said, staring grimly at the broken-off component in his hands. "And I don't currently have the means to fix them."

Ace frowned. "And that means?"

"Potentially nothing. Possibly everything."

She was unimpressed. "All right – and one more time, without the cryptic remarks?"

He gave a small, rueful smile, and then said, "I'm sorry – force of habit. What I mean to say was; without the psychic circuits fully functional, we'll be defenceless against certain avenues of attack."

"Like psychic invasion, you mean?"

"Precisely." He frowned. "Be careful. It's far too early in the game for anybody to be tipping their hand quite yet. So we can only assume that there's going to be far worse to come."

"Right," said Ace, "cool. Brill. Wonderful." She tried to remember what had been happening before the unexpected interruption. "Uh flower language. I'm going to go work on that."

"Yes," he agreed, pushing himself up from the ground. "I very much suspect that there's no time to lose."

The room felt colder now, somehow, although everything was most likely back to normal already.

"Right, well," said Ace, standing up wanting to get things back on track. "See you later, then."

He nodded, and began hunting for the samples.

"That dinner party's after this?" she said, pausing in the doorway.

"That was the plan," he said, "tomorrow night, linearly speaking."

She sighed. "Should be a nice break, I guess. You know from all this."

"Mm. I am looking forward to it." He shot her a tight, but genuine smile. "Do remember to get some rest."

"You know, I was about to tell you the same thing," she said.

His smile relaxed a bit, and then he said, "perhaps we should coordinate, then. Do you have any preferences for dinner?"

She ran a hand through her hair, which was messy and falling out of its previously-tight ponytail. "Mm not really. Do whatever, I guess."

"'Whatever'," he said solemnly. "All right. Noted."

Ace leaned on the doorframe. "Research. Dinner. Bed. Life never gets boring 'round here, does it?"

"See you in an hour," said the Professor with a small, exhausted laugh, and that was that.

It would be the last pleasant dinner they would have for quite a while.

* * *

_9:34 PM_  
_Elsewhere –_

* * *

– a monster stood in the middle of a forest, half-blending with the trees and darkness. Its eyes were blank; its expression vacant. A terrible, horrible crime was to be committed by it, and very soon. But that time hadn't arrived yet, and so it simply waited, the cold night wind ruffling its hair.

Somewhere in the distance, dogs were barking.

And at precisely the same moment, not too far away from there at all – cosmically speaking – opera was playing softly in one of the most well-kept kitchens in the world.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter picked up his often-consulted catalogue of business cards, neatly arranged and sorted for convenience's sake. He began to thumb through them, occasionally pausing to remove one and set it carefully aside.

When he had accumulated enough of these cards, he nodded to himself, and picked up a knife from the countertop –

The opera singer in the recording was pleading for her child not to forget her – to commit her face to memory forever.

– Hannibal smiled, and – although absolutely nobody at all could have made the connection – his smile was entirely too similar to the creature in the wood's own to be comfortable, or, indeed, coincidence.

Soon it would be time for supper.


	4. brimont

**four.** **  
****"** **brimont ****"**

* * *

_?_  
_?_

* * *

Will Graham was dreaming, but was not aware of it – not fully, not yet.

It was the forest again, the endless green-and-brown deep forest of his continuous nightmares. (Of course it was.) He had found himself here, an indeterminable amount of time ago, following the indistinct tracks of a great beast that was somehow always several steps ahead of him. He was barefoot, although he did have the rest of his clothes – light jeans, tattered jacket; thank god for small blessings. Dead leaves crackled with his every step, but whenever he paused or stopped to get hold of his bearings, the world swayed around him and crackled in and out of clarity like a faulty old television set.

The Hobbs cabin loomed before him like a monolith – the Shrike's nest rising out of the blackness. It wasn't in the right place. The forest was too thick; the road that would usually be running alongside it nowhere in sight. Lights were on in the lower windows, but nobody was moving around inside that he could see.

Will hesitated, a short distance away; wondering if it was even worth it to enter, and then a scream echoed all the way to his ears – a young woman's voice, high pitched and terrified – and at that, Will didn't hesitate. He broke into a run without even consciously thinking about it. The front door of the cabin was already wide open, and when he entered, stopping for the briefest of seconds in the doorway, he saw that the interior of the house was abandoned, as if it had been left here for a great deal many years, and overgrown with weeds and tangled undergrowth.

The scream, again – clearly from upstairs. The attic. Of course it was the attic. Will took the staircase two steps at a time, and as he rounded the corner, he saw that the door leading upstairs was shut, perhaps locked. At the same time, he noticed that the screaming had stopped.

He shouldered open the door, charging up the stairs near-blindly, and stumbled to a stop at the crest of the staircase as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he processed, fully, what he was seeing.

There was a girl pinned to the wall, nestled amongst the endless sets of stag horns with uncanny precision, dark, uncombed hair spilling over her face and arms spread-eagled and caught within tangles of bone-white remains. She was barely clothed, and her skin was dirty, encrusted with soil and rotting leaves, like she had been buried for several days and only recently unearthed. Blood trickled down her chest and legs, congealing in a dark, almost black, puddle that was slowly spreading across the floor.

Marissa Schurr, he thought, and then, incredibly, this nightmare is getting old, but then the girl raised her head slowly, and along with the lighting-like stab of realization – she's still alive, somehow – came another revelation, just as earth-shattering.

"Abigail," he said, because her visage was unmistakable, even beneath the layers of dirt enveloping her skin like waves. Her gaze caught him, made him stop in his tracks and freeze up for far too long. It was her that had been screaming, he realized belatedly, but that had died down now to stuttered sobbing, soft and rhythmic, almost mechanical.

"Oh god," she pleaded, tears carving pale tracks down her grimy cheeks, "oh – oh god, Mr Graham. Help me. "

There were two antlers – only stubs, really – protruding from her chest, soaked over with blood, although he couldn't quite remember if they had been there when he had arrived. He stumbled forward to meet her, propelling himself into action, and seized her shoulders, intending to pull her off her gruesome mounting. "Abigail," he said again, and tugged as hard as he could, but she screamed again, a single note of pure agony. When Will looked down, he saw that the antlers were growing from her chest; white bone sprouting and splitting into fresh new shoots that continued to spill eternally outwards.

" Please ," Abigail mouthed at him. Blood trickled down her chin. He let go of her shoulders, and tried to grab the ends of the antlers to curb their growth, somehow, but they stung his hands like burning coals, and when he reeled back, panting, his hands were slick with blood.

He spun to see that the rest of the attic was growing too, now – a writhing mass of dead bone and velvet sprouting and budding into life; a grotesque timelapse of the world's most macabre garden. He saw bone-roses blooming as the dim light from the sole window caught their forms in its pale fingers; saw lilies bobbing up to the surface from the depths of seemingly bottomless pools of blood. Vines crept their way along the rafters, sprouting deadly thorns and tightening pointedly around the house's foundations, making the room around them shake.

Will found himself cornered in, forced closer and closer to Abigail, who let out a soft moan as a tendril of living bone looped its way around her ankles, digging into her flesh. "Please," she repeated, the word bubbling and distorting through a mouthful of blood.

He turned and wrapped his arms around Abigail's torso, intending to tug her out, but the garden grew tighter and tighter around them until the dim sunlight from outside was completely blotted out by the endless mass of living antlers, and then Will was not Will anymore, and they were in the kitchen at home with a knife to Abigail's throat, holding her in the same tight embrace.

"I'm sorry," they said with Will's mouth and when they cast a glance down at the shining reflective surface of the oven, it was Will's body that they were inhabiting and Will's hand that was holding the knife, and when they slashed the knife sharply across Abigail's throat with a movement that was almost a caress, that was Will's hand too. And when Abigail crumpled in their arms, wheezing out her dying breaths through a slashed windpipe, Will became Will again, and wondered if he had ever really been anybody else, even as he moved frantically to save Abigail's life.

"Abigail. Abigail," he muttered; her name a litany on his lips, sinking down to his knees in the blood-splattered kitchen and cradling her in his lap. His hands went to her throat, pressing hard, but he already knew it was too late. She was too far gone. There was nobody else in the room but him; no former surgeon waiting to take over, no murderous father dying gruesomely in the corner; just him and the body of the girl he was failing to save. "I'm sorry," he said, blood spraying his face and neck as he readjusted his hands, "Abigail, I'm so sorry–"

And incredibly, she smiled up at him.

"See," she whispered, and thorny vines slithered up from the depths of her throat, constricting against her vocal chords as it bloomed, a perfect red rose nestling in her parted lips, and she forced out the word again, choking on the petals as she did so, " see, " and then she was gone and the kitchen was gone, and Will was kneeling in the forest; alone again and covered in her blood.

He looked down. Trailing away from where he was standing; hoofprints. They led down the nature-beaten path, to the distance, out of sight completely. He stood up, a puppet jerked into life by an uncertain puppetmaster. Will Graham now knew that he was dreaming. He knew it, was aware of it in dizzying intensity, and also knew, with the same exact certainty, that he couldn't do anything at all about it. He would have to follow this path to the end; stalk his unknown quarry – or wait for it to hunt him down – until the moment he woke up.

He looked down at his bare feet, and took a step forward, resigning himself to the hunt. He probably would have continued following the tracks until his morning alarm rang, but then the hairs on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, and he became aware of the sound of movement in the bushes behind him. There was somebody there. His gun more-or-less materialized in his hands as he drew it upwards to confront the unknown threat, flicking off the safety catch without a second thought. He wasn't taking any chances.

Another snap, another rustle, and a voice from the darkness – "hello? Anybody out there?"

The voice was familiar, although Will couldn't exactly pin it down. He tightened his grip on the gun, and when his spoke, his voice was as rusty and uncertain as if he hadn't said a word for decades. "Put your hands up, and come into the light. Where I can see you." There was a short silence, like the person in the shadows was deciding whether or not to comply. Will decided to bolster his argument in the only way he really could: "I have a gun."

There was a sigh. "Oh, well – in that case," said the voice, and a girl emerged into the clearing where Will was standing. She was fairly short, but carried herself in a manner that suggested that she had a disproportionate amount of strength and knew exactly how to use it. Either that, or she was overconfident. She was wearing mostly black – combat boots, a ruffled skirt, tights, and a jacket that was plastered with pins and badges of all styles and sorts. There was a rucksack slung over her shoulders that was clearly packed to bursting – although with what, he couldn't tell. She eyed him with slight trepidation. "Oi, do you really need to point that thing at me?"

"Yes," he said firmly. There was something niggling at the back of his mind... "You're – I know you. Do I?" Will searched the distant corners of his memory, but came up with a total of nothing.

"Ace," said the girl, eyeing him. "You're Will Graham, right? You work with the FBI. I saw you yesterday afternoon."

"Yes, I – that's my name." He dropped the gun, secure in the knowledge that he probably didn't need it, and that it would reappear when he needed it, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "How, how are you here? I'm dreaming. This is my dream."

"Yep," Ace said simply, popping the p. "I know you're dreaming. So am I. Guess I'm stuck here until either you or I wake up. Or both, maybe." She folded her arms, gazing around the forest, and then her scrutiny fell back upon him, as if she was finally seeing him for the first time. "Mate, you're covered in blood."

"Yes, thank you," he said, grimacing. "I'm aware. You caught me in the middle of a nightmare, I think. It's not my blood," he added, as if that clarification made much of a difference.

"Well, that's something, I guess." Ace looked around again, and chewed on her bottom lip. "The Professor says the psychic circuits in the TARDIS are kind of – malfunctioning at the moment, He hasn't got around to fixing them yet. That's probably how I'm here. No idea how or why you're here. In my head. Or maybe I'm in your head?"

"Sure," said Will, although he wasn't really sure at all what she was talking about. "I hope you know just how strange this is."

"Eh," said Ace, and shrugged. "I've had weirder nights."

There was another snap from the dark forest beyond them, and this time both Ace and Will jumped, startled. As before, Will tugged his familiar gun from nowhere, clicking it into position as he aimed it at the source of the sound. Ace, similarly, tugged what looked like a standard-league baseball bat from her side, whipping it around and into position to rest on her shoulder – her weapon of choice.

"Show yourself," Ace called, eyes narrowed, and there was a moment of silence broken only by the distant wind rustling the trees around them.

Bright eyes flashed in the darkness, and Will drew in a short breath at the sight of them, suddenly unreasonably terrified. He raised his gun and was all but prepared to fire, but Ace exclaimed, "wait!"

He watched – lowering the barrel minutely, still all-too-ready to fire if need be – as she edged forward cautiously, holding her bat at the ready. She toed at the tall undergrowth, pushing it aside, and then – to his surprise, laughed.

"Don't worry," she said, sinking to her knees and dropping her bat, which melted away into the shadows. "It's just the Professor."

Will hesitantly lowered his gun all the way, although he kept a firm grip on it with one hand. "Who?" he asked.

She turned her head and grinned at him. "Exactly," she said. Her eyes flashed bright as she turned back, and there was an uncanny resemblance between their bright, almost unearthly shine, and the eyes that they had seen only moments ago. She held out an arm, extending it into the darkness. Almost instantly, a cat emerged from the undergrowth, quickly and efficiently scaling her arm and crossing over her shoulders. It briefly perched on her right shoulder as she rose up from the ground and looked back to Will – brown, sleek fur, tail quirked slightly to one side, and intensely intelligent eyes, the color of which was utterly impossible to describe.

Ace leaned down to pick up her baseball bat, except it wasn't a bat any more – it had somehow become an umbrella, black and well-used with a shiny red question-mark handle. She looked at it, and then looked at the cat on her shoulder, and sighed, rolling her eyes, before rejoining Will in the clearing. "He says hi, and also to put down the gun, because," she affected an absolutely awful accent that he couldn't recognize in the least, "'it won't do you any matter of good, not here or anywhere else'."

Will blinked at her, and then stared at the cat, who stared back, unreadable. "...he does?"

She laughed, and swung the umbrella back and forth absently. "Nah. He's a cat right now. Cats can't talk, stupid. But he'd probably say it if he could."

The cat meowed softly, as if in agreement – a low, rumbling sound that, incredibly, sounded remarkably Scottish.

"See?" she said, and then grimaced, looking over at the cat. "Professor, you're kind of heavy. Could you –"

Obligingly, it swivelled; rearranging its weight so it ended up sitting more on top of her rucksack than her before neatly curling its tail around itself.

"– yeah. Thanks." She looked over at Will, and then pointed into the endless forest sprawled out before them –the opposite direction to the tracks leading away from him. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm getting the feeling that we should go that way. You coming with – or d'you have another preference?"

Will glanced the opposite way and although there really wasn't any way to definitively tell, he could have sworn he saw the visage of the great feathered stag, watching him from the shadows.

"No," he said, looking back at Ace and the cat balanced on her back. "No preference. Lead the way," he added, and she did.

Although Ace seemed to be following pure instinct more than anything else – she would frequently stop, and turn in a new, random direction before setting off again – there was no mistaking that the deeper they went into the woods, the darker it became around them. Not just in terms of lack of light, either; the air was becoming heavier and thicker and Will felt his mind becoming dull and sluggish.

Continuously, out of the corner of his eye, Will caught glimpses of something large and feathered keeping pace with them a short distance away. He looked away every time, though, refusing to acknowledge its existence any more than he had to. But every time he saw it again, it had ventured just a little bit closer to them, although it continually shied away from the especially dark areas of the forest. That in particular struck Will as a little odd, although he wasn't sure why, exactly.

"Friend of yours?" Ace asked, when the stag drew especially close, only a few steps behind them – so close that Will could feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. Neither of them turned to face it, but its presence was undeniable even so.

Will opened his mouth to say 'no', but the word inexplicably caught in his throat, and he ended up shrugging instead, unsure. The stag continued to follow them, silent as the grave and just as ominous. The darkness was spreading its hands in front of them, as if in invitation – shadows becoming longer, reaching out to encircle them with bony, indistinct fingers.

"Something's coming," Ace said after a while of them walking in silence like this. For a moment, Will was convinced that she meant the stag, but then he realized that she was looking ahead of them, into the complete, all-encompassing darkness that was spread out before them. He squinted in the direction that she was gazing at, but couldn't see anything.

He was about to ask a question, but was interrupted by a low rumbling sound that grew in intensity and volume, like the earth was waking up, and he had to fight to keep his footing as the ground began to shake beneath his feet. He heard Ace suck in a sharp breath of air through her front teeth, and mutter, "oh, that isn't good," and heard the feathered stag behind him snort and toss its head in a decidedly nervous manner, and then the forest before and around them flattened and melted away, very suddenly, leaving them standing at the mercy of the being that emerged before them.

A seemingly infinite body clawed its way out of the earth, a heaving mass of a thousand or more limbs and ragged fur and razor-tipped claws that threatened to blot out the little light that remained from the false moon shining above them. Its elongated, distorted skull – falling somewhere between serpentine and canine in appearance – dripped with a dark, pungent liquid, and strands of what almost appeared to be seaweed. Fire burned within its empty eyesockets, a radioactive impossibility of green and white.

Will's gun sprung into his hands, even though he knew that it would be no use. He felt, rather then saw, the great black stag that had stalked him (or he had stalked it) for what felt like forever take a step back, and then another, and then – and here Will did look over to it, and stared in open disbelief as the raven-feathered stag simply turned tail and fled.

The creature before them roared, and it was terrifying to behold. It swivelled and thrashed as it struggled to right itself, its neck folding about in impossible ways before coming to rest, staring directly at Ace.

Something in its gaze, although an expression on such a beast was all but impossible to discern, seemed to change. And then it moved faster than he would ever have thought anything could – sending several of its endless multitude of limbs hurtling at Ace.

Ace stumbled backwards a step, but the cat that had been up until now perching on some combination of her rucksack and her shoulder launched itself from her and towards the swiftly-approaching claws. Her eyes widened, and she yelled out an indistinct, completely futile warning in the cat's direction, even as the creature's limbs changed direction mid-attack and swarmed towards it instead.

The cat landed on the ground, tail whipping furiously from side to side, and bowed its head just as the monster's deadly grasp converged around it, enveloping the tiny feline form and obscuring it from view.

Ace yelled out again, and Will had to grab her shoulder to prevent her from dashing into the fray, but almost immediately, there was an almighty flash of purest gold, and the creature's tendrils sprung away, retracting and retreating as if burnt. Ace tore herself away from Will and dashed towards the cat, who was straightening up, appearing none the worse for wear.

"You idiot, " she hissed, scooping up the cat into her arms – who looked slightly disgruntled at the rough treatment but endured it, even as she squeezed it in a brief, grateful hug as she hurried back to Will.

"What was that?" Will asked her incredulously, wondering at the same time if it would be worth it to at least try shooting the being in front of them.

"Faith forcefield," she said distractedly, not really answering anything. "I think. Which means..." She looked over at the beast, which appeared to be regathering its strength for another attack, and then down at the cat. "Is this what I think it is?"

The cat bobbed its head in a grim nod.

"Shit," said Ace succinctly, and looked up just in time to see almost half of the being's multitude of limbs bearing down on them with all the force of a nuclear airstrike.

The cat in Ace's arms straightened up again, tail curling around her arm almost protectively, and directed its intense gaze at the being rising from the earth. The golden light flashed again, curving around the two of them and enveloping them in its warm, bright glow.

As it did, Will's gun melted to dust and air in his hand as he, with no shield of any sort to protect him, stared certain death in its glowing, inhuman eyes. And within less than a second, he accepted it – accepted that it was going to happen that that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

And at nearly that precise moment, a thick mass of dark feathers drew level with Will, and when he glanced over he met the dark, oddly empty gaze of the stag that had haunted him for so many long nights. There was a connection there, somehow; a deep understanding that passed between them, and Will became aware of the fact that whatever happened, the stag would not let him die – not here, not like this. Will raised a hand, pressed it to the stag's side and dug his fingers into the softness of its flank, closing his eyes briefly.

"Please," he said, inviting its salvation, and as he opened his eyes again, the stag's feathers came alive; an endless dark mass of silver-beaked ravens that emerged from its flesh and spiralled around them, creating a sphere of darkness and feathers that somehow managed to shield the both of them from the horror looming, monstrous, over the dreamscape.

After a second and an eternity, the ravens cleared, flowing back into the stag's feathered mane, and to his left, he saw the golden glow retreat. Ace was still standing, but the cat in her arms looked exhausted and barely conscious, like the effort of maintaining the glow for a second time had been too much for it. Will realized that, as far as Ace and the cat were concerned, there was no hope left. He knew, somehow, that the stag's protection would not extend to them as well under any circumstances – it was for him and him alone.

Ace seemed to realize this too, because she turned to look at Will as the creature reared itself up for a final attack. "None of us will remember this when we wake," she said, the words strangely hollow, as if somebody else was speaking through her and using her mouth, and then she smiled at him, her eyes shining brightly through the dark, and both she and the cat were engulfed by the creature, and he saw that it was coming for him next. He was frozen in place, unable to think of anything to do.

The stag roughly butted his side, spurring him into action, and he knew without really knowing how that the midnight-black creature beside him wanted him to climb onto it. Will scrambled to comply with this unspoken request, pulling himself up and onto the stag's vast feathered back. The stag tossed its head, made an unearthly noise that Will didn't understand in the least, and, with a creature beyond the realms of human comprehension pursuing them relentlessly, began to run into nothing.

The wind stung Will's eyes so he closed them, and he wove his fingers deeper into the soft feathers, and buried his head into the stag's neck as the manic rhythm of their frantic dash shook his very bones, vibrating at his soul. And they ran and ran and dashed into eternity and Will closed his eyes even tighter and woke up to the blare of his alarm clock and the most intense feeling that he had forgotten something very important indeed.


	5. rectifier

**five.** **  
"** **_rectifier_ "**

* * *

_8.15 PM  
Baltimore, Maryland_

* * *

The guests arrived at Hannibal Lecter's house gradually. Will Graham was the first, of course – there before anybody else. He _was _dressed up, really; although most would have considered it to not be very appropriate dinner party wear.

Hannibal took his coat at the door, mouth curling up a bit and said, "I am not quite done with dinner yet. You could come and keep me company in the kitchen, if you wish?"

"Ah," said Will, looking acutely uncomfortable at the suggestion, "er – no. I'll just wait here for everyone else to arrive."

"But of course," said Hannibal, and if he was disappointed he hid it remarkably well.

He took his leave, which meant that Will was left to welcome both Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford, somewhat awkwardly, as they arrived – one after the other. The Doctor and Ace showed up last – walking up to the doorstep from the dark street with no indication or sign as to how they had actually got there. When they knocked, Alana Bloom was the one to let them in.

"Doctor Smith," she greeted, smiling, as Ace shut the door behind them. "I've heard so much about you. I'm Alana Bloom – I consult with Jack, sporadically."

"Just Doctor, please," he said, and shook her hand. He had foregone his dusty old coat and question-mark jumper for a more dignified black dress jacket and red undershirt. "Another psychiatrist?"

"We're in great demand, apparently," she said, and turned to the other newcomer. "And... Miss McShane, isn't it?"

Ace was wearing a tuxedo. "Everybody's been calling me 'Miss McShane' lately," she complained lightly, even as she reached across to shake Alana's hand as well. "Makes me feel like the youngest person in the room. Call me Ace."

"You _are _the youngest person in the room," the Doctor noted, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Yeah, don't remind me." Ace sighed.

At this, Alana laughed, evidently charmed. "Ace it is."

"Ah," said Hannibal, emerging from the hallway leading to the rest of the house, "everybody is here. Excellent – do come through. My apologies for not being a more welcoming host. The meal was proving especially hard to wrangle into shape tonight."

"Not at all," Alana said, taking the lead in following him, and the party made its way through the house – down a long hallway and into the dining room, which was dimly lit, and altogether more than a little gothic in appearance.

"There would usually be flowers as a centrepiece," Hannibal said, by means of explanation, "but considering the nature of the crime you are investigating currently, I felt that would be in rather poor taste."

There was scattered, somewhat guilty laughter from the guests.

Everybody else took their places around the table. The empty spot at the head of the table appeared to be reserved for their host. Will sat at the spot at the opposite end of the table, and everybody else filled in the spaces in-between.

"Last fancy dinner party I went to, there were human remains in the soup," Ace said conversationally, which attracted several alarmed looks, one amused glance, and one warning stare – the latter of which came from the Doctor, of course. She quickly backtracked. "– just joking. Er – sorry. Cannibalism jokes are kind of bad to make at dinner, aren't they?"

"Not to worry," said Hannibal, and actually grinned; a properly amused smile, showing teeth. "I am not serving soup tonight."

He re-entered the kitchen, and emerged almost immediately with several small side dishes – salads, what appeared to be freshly made bread, and wines that appeared to be very good vintages.

For a brief time, the people sitting at the table simply made lighthearted small talk as they ate the entrees. Alana Bloom and the Doctor, who were seated next to each other, began discussing their respective psychological backgrounds and beliefs. Jack and Will were talking too, although it appeared to be mostly about the flower-killer case. Ace interjected in both conversations whenever necessary, and exchanged some cheerful words with Hannibal as he flitted in and out of the room. The atmosphere was lively and pleasant, and altogether, everybody – even Will, remarkably – was having a good time.

Shortly, the main course was served.

"_ Saltimbocca alla romana _, served on a bed of fresh spring beans – and other assorted vegetables," Hannibal announced with no small amount of relish, and carefully transferred the dishes from where they had been balanced along one arm to the table, in front of each guest. "A dish whose origins can be loosely traced back to Brescia – a Roman city, as the name would imply. It can be translated roughly to mean 'jump in the mouth'."

"Looks delicious," opined Ace, and breathed in as he set a plate in front of her before returning to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the food. "Smells great too!"

"Mm, yes," agreed Alana. "What's in it, Hannibal?"

"I could tell you," said Hannibal dryly, returning from the kitchen with more plates of saltimbocca, "but then I'd have to kill you."

There was another scattering of amused laughter that echoed around the table. Even Will smiled slightly at this.

"Veal," Hannibal said, smiling as well. "Veal and prosciutto, as well as some other seasonings and additions. And for you, Doctor Smith – _pasta all'arrabbiata._" In front of the Doctor, he set down a plate of meticulously prepared noodles and sauce. "I hope it is to your tastes. I do not usually cook for a vegetarian palate."

"I'm sure it will be," he said. "You appear to be a very accomplished chef, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal inclined his head at the Doctor, and took his place at the head of the table, and took up a fork in one hand and a knife in the other. "_ Bon appetit _," he said, by means of invitation.

Everybody dug in. For a few seconds there was silence, as everybody simply enjoyed the well-prepared food; and then conversation began to gurgle up like champagne, and then somebody – Alana – actually broke out the champagne, and soon nearly everyone was talking again – this time with Hannibal gladly taking part. The Doctor almost instantly engaged him in a conversation about moral ethics, which the two of them quickly became absorbed in.

Within ten or so minutes, the atmosphere in the room was vibrant and lively – even Will, despite still talking work with Jack, seemed at ease being there. Alana and Ace were chatting idly and irregularly about nothing in particular. And the ethics debate was still going, although it had evolved somewhat.

"Well, historically speaking, humanity has had a hard time thinking objectively about the – well, human condition," the Doctor was saying, idly tapping the edge of a fork in a quick, even rhythm against the edge of his plate. "Which I would hypothesize is more by design than coincidence. Although by _whose _design is anyone's guess. Certainly not mine."

"An interesting point. However, in Plato's _Republic _–" Hannibal began, raising a finger, but the Doctor had become distracted by something else, and had stopped listening briefly.

"Ace?" the Doctor asked, casting her a glance. "Is everything all right? You're being awfully quiet."

Ace had only eaten a few bites of her dinner, and hadn't even touched the meat yet, but she was staring at the plate with an odd expression on her face. She blinked once, and then twice, and then looked up at him, as if she had only just heard what he had said. "I – what?"

Hannibal also turned; and tilted his head at Ace. "Miss McShane. Is there something wrong with the meal – not to your liking, perhaps?"

"No!" she was quick to exclaim. "No, it's fine! It's just..." She trailed off, and then seemed to change her mind. "...is it supposed to taste, like – you know. All metallic?"

A frown slashed its way across Hannibal's face. "It is not," he said.

Alana looked at her plate. "Mine's fine," she volunteered.

"So is mine," Jack added. "It tastes excellent, as always."

"I must have made a mistake – not washed your plate properly," Hannibal said, and rose to his feet. His tone indicated that he wasn't the sort of person that had made any sort of mistake in his life, ever; but nonetheless he extended a hand in her direction. "My deepest apologies. I will replace your dinner, if you will give me just a second."

"Thanks," said Ace, visibly relieved, and moved to hand him her plate. Before she could even pick it up, however, she coughed – an unpleasant-sounding, hacking cough – and her hand sprung up to her mouth briefly. She quickly recovered, and picked up the plate, quickly passing it over to Hannibal. When he didn't move to take it, she frowned. "Why're you staring at me like that?"

"Ace," said the Doctor, audibly horrified, and sprung to his feet in one quick movement, pushing back his chair. "You're –"

He didn't make it any further before she doubled over in coughing again, fingers twitching and causing her to lose her grip on the plate. It clattered to the table, food spilling everywhere. Ace sank back into her seat, tears forming in her eyes from the force of the harsh, involuntary coughing fit. When she removed her hand from her mouth, it was even more obvious that her hands were now splattered with dark blood. She raised her eyes to meet the Doctor's, terrified.

"Pro –" she began, but didn't finish. Jack, who had been sitting next to her, exclaimed in alarm, and grabbed her arm as her eyes rolled back in her head and she began to list sideways away from the table. Alana made a noise somewhere between a tiny scream and a choke, but seemed to be frozen in place.

The Doctor had already rounded the table at record-breaking speeds, and was at her side in an instant; lowering her to the ground. "Ace? _Ace! _Ace, wake up; you need to _wake up – _" He grabbed her shoulders, and shook her roughly.

"She has been poisoned," said Hannibal grimly, eyeing her. "I can smell it, even from here."

"Alana, call 991," Jack barked, which was enough to spur her into action. She jolted up from her seat, and stumbled towards the kitchen. Oddly enough, Will rose to his feet as well, running after her.

The Doctor slapped the side of Ace's face, pulling her properly upright. "_ Ace!" _he barked, acquiring the sharp, biting tone of a military commander, although his face reflected complete terror.

Her eyelids fluttered, and her hand jolted spasmodically, as if she was trying to grasp the side of his jacket. "I – where?" she gasped. She appeared to be having difficulty speaking, and she coughed weakly again.

"That's it, Ace – stay here, stay with me," the Doctor breathed. Ace's eyes opened properly, although not without some considerable effort, and she moaned indistinctly. She turned to the side and coughed violently, spraying blood all over the carpet.

Hannibal came to kneel next to them, and reached out to grab her chin, tilting it so she was looking directly at him. "Was it in the food?"

"I – I don't –" she stuttered out, clearly distressed. She was shaking, a constant tremor that

"The poison, Miss McShane," he repeated, more urgently. "Was it in the food?"

"Think so," she gasped. At this announcement, Hannibal's expression went suddenly, terrifyingly dark. Ace let out a tiny indistinct gasp of pain, and her eyes rolled back again as she lost consciousness, despite the Doctor's repeated commands to _not _do just that.

"Doctor Lecter," the Doctor snapped out, losing the gentleness from before and sliding back into 'military commander' abruptly. "_ Do something. _"

Alana stumbled back into the room, clutching the phone. "They're on their way," she said. "Ten minutes."

"I'm afraid there is nothing we can do until the paramedics arrive," Hannibal said. "Try to keep her conscious, if you can."

Will was close behind Alana. "It was him," he said clearly and loudly. "He was here; he was _just _here–"

"What are you talking about?" Jack demanded.

The Doctor shook her by the shoulders again, desperation clear on his face. "_ Ace! _" He closed his eyes, shook his head, and pulled a long, thin metal stick out of his pocket. Twisting it, he pointed it at her forehead. It began to emit a loud buzzing tone, and almost immediately her eyes shot open. She stared around, uncomprehending, and began to shake again. Her lips were turning blue.

"What are you doing?" asked Alana, sounding terrified as she approached the Doctor.

He ignored her. "Shh, shh, it's all right," he whispered to Ace, running a hand along her hair.

"I don't – I don't _understand, _" she pleaded, desperate, sounding almost childlike. "P – Pr – _what's happening to me? _"

He winced; looked pained, and pulled her closer. "Just try to stay calm, Ace. Help is on the way."

Hannibal had stood up, and was now staring at Will with an inscrutable expression. "_ Him, _Will?"

"The flower killer," Will said, and almost violently crossed to their side of the room, where he picked up Ace's plate and dumped the rest of the food off onto the table. Hannibal's lips tightened almost imperceptibly at this, but then Will tore the thing that had been hidden underneath the meat, vegetables and sauce, and held it out, staring at it silently. Jack, Hannibal and Alana – still gripping the phone like a lifeline – gathered around him, and stared at the single playing card that had been concealed in the dinner.

The ace of hearts.

* * *

_11.04  
__Baltimore, Maryland_

* * *

The ambulance had arrived a short few minutes later, and Ace had been bundled into it as quickly as humanly possible – she had been barely breathing just before they arrived, had been pale and still but still clutching desperately at Doctor Smith's jacket as he murmured to her encouragingly, meaninglessly, desperately. The dining room floor had been splattered with blood when she had left. The police had been called, the rest of the FBI was already on its way, and Hannibal was overseeing the disposal, sampling and containment of the poisoned food. Everything was under control.

Will stood in the small strip of garden that served as Hannibal's back yard, staring out at the distant trees swaying in the darkness. Distant sirens and flashing lights from the front of the house tugged at the edges of his mind, but at the moment he had eyes only for the darkness. He knew that the poisoner – the killer, if his instincts were right; the same person who had killed in Aberdeen the previous morning – had left this way, and had probably done so over an hour ago. Tracking him down by following his trail was not a sensible idea.

There was a rustle of movement in the trees beyond his field of vision, and he heard the sound of someone, or something, moving in the direction away from the house rapidly. Will felt his heart speed up.

The yard was open to the woods behind it. He had his gun with him. Nobody was around to stop him.

And 'sensible' had never been his strong suit, anyway.

He headed directly towards the treeline, barely pausing to think, because if he thought about what he was doing for even a split second, he knew he would lose the scent of the trail he was on. Before he was even aware of it, he was far enough into the forest that he couldn't see the lights of Hannibal's house when he looked back, but when he looked forwards, he could hear the sound of a large, heavy-breathing thing crashing through the undergrowth ahead of him.

His quarry was within reach, he knew. He moved slowly, cautiously treading his way through the forest – barely even daring to breathe. Just a few steps further. Just a few steps further, and...

He pushed back a branch, and he saw it.

The stag tossed its head in the air and snorted, and turned to look directly at him. Its eyes were burning. But for once, Will's focus wasn't on the raven-feathered stag – instead, he was staring at the thing looming behind it.

It was huge. It was vast. It was all-consuming. It was –

"Will," said somebody.

Will blinked, and it was gone.

That same somebody touched his shoulder. He flinched violently, turning to face the somebody – and it was Hannibal, of course it was, presenting the perfect picture of concern. His sleeves were stained faintly with blood, dark in the moonlight, Will could see. He was holding a flashlight, which at this current moment was directed somewhere just to the side of Will's face – not shining in his eyes, which he counted as a blessing. His headache was raging; his head felt like it was on fire.

"You're chilled to the bone, Will," said Hannibal, when he didn't respond. "Come back to the house – come inside."

"There was something," Will said, unsure. He turned his head away, searching for any sign of midnight-black feathers, or burning hooves. There was nothing, not at first, but if he squinted –

Hannibal dug his fingers into Will's shoulder, hard – forcing him to look back. "There is nothing out here, Will. Nothing and no-one but you and I."

"I –" Will released a shuddering, shaking breath, and leaned into Hannibal's grip. "What time is it?"

Hannibal pulled up his sleeve, tilting his watch to catch the light from the flashlight. "It is ten twenty-four," he said, looking back up to hold Will's gaze.

"It's ten twenty-four," Will echoed, and then said, with slightly less conviction and a bit of hesitancy in his voice, "I'm in Baltimore, Maryland?" At Hannibal's nod, he said, "and my name is Will Graham."

"Good." Hannibal's grip loosened somewhat, but he didn't let go. "You need to warm up. Come with me."

"I couldn't catch him," Will breathed, allowing Hannibal to half-guide, half-support him as they began to make their way back in the direction that he had come from. "I – I thought I was following him, but –"

"Following who?" Hannibal's voice was calm. His voice was always calm, sometimes infuriatingly so, but this time it was good – steady, an anchor.

"The – the flower killer." _No. No, that wasn't right. _"No – not... it was the poisoner. The one who killed... Ace." He swallowed. "I couldn't catch him. I – I was so close..."

"Miss McShane is not dead yet," Hannibal reminded him, gently but firmly, leading him along. "And the poisoner is most likely long gone by now, seeing as the crime occurred nearly a full hour ago." He paused, slightly. "You believe that the poisoner and your current quarry are one and the same?"

Will hesitated. "Yes. No. I – I don't know, I don't know what I..." He trailed off, and then said, "how is she?"

"Alive, currently," he said. "Not well, certainly, but she is alive. Doctor Smith is with her; they are en route to the nearest hospital."

"She – good." Will released a single, exhausted sigh. "Good."

Hannibal hummed in response – a low, even tone. "Yes. It will be. Come – it is warmer inside."

"Good," Will repeated – soft, tired – and they left.

Inhuman eyes watched them from the forest as they went.


	6. brunoise

**six.  
**"**brunoise"**

* * *

_6.39 AM  
Quantico, Virginia_

* * *

"– and you're absolutely sure that you're well enough to do this?"

"'Course I am. Come on, stop fussing."

"No pain, no residual shakiness–?"

"I'm _fine_, Professor–"

"You still seem rather warm..."

"Oi, get off! I said I'm fine!"

Beverly Katz rounded the corner to find the Doctor and Ace sitting in one of the empty labs – well, Ace was sitting on one of the countertops, anyway. The Doctor was pacing in front of her nervously. At her approach, they both looked up, breaking off from their argument.

"Ah – Miss Katz," the Doctor said, nodding at her. "Thank you for coming so promptly. My apologies for calling on you so early in the morning."

"No prob," she told him. "It got me out of bed on time, so I'm not complaining."

"Hiya, Bev," Ace said. She looked a bit paler than usual, but otherwise perfectly healthy.

"Hey," said Beverly, raising her hand in greeting. "I heard about the poisoning."

"Yep," said Ace, sighing. "Seems like everyone has. I'm fine, honestly."

"In that case, I'll shut up about it. Good to see you on your feet, though." She looked over to the Doctor. "What'd you need, Doctor Smith?"

"Just Doctor. And information, if you would be so kind," he said. "The events of the last few days have redoubled my determination to find this flower-obsessed killer, and both I – and Ace, apparently..." and here he shot Ace a worried look, like he wasn't entirely sure that she should be up and walking around quite yet, "...have decided to rejoin the investigation, properly."

"Awesome – it's always good to have more people on hand. Especially now." Beverly ran a hand through her hair. "So what do you need to know? Weren't you at the hotel crime scene yesterday?"

"I was," the Doctor agreed. "But Ace wasn't, which brings me to my first request – would you mind bringing her fully up to date on the situation?"

"Sure, no problem," Beverly agreed. "I was heading down to the lab anyway. We've got pictures down there."

"Cheers," Ace said, and then, turning on the Doctor, "_wait_, no – I was coming with you, remember?"

He studiously ignored her, and looked at Beverly once more. "As for my second question. Would you happen to know where Will Graham lives?"

"Y–_essss_," Beverly said, stretching the word out dubiously. "Uh, _why, _though?"

"I intended to discuss with him the somewhat unusual events of yesterday," the Doctor said. "There are some... things that I wish to know."

Beverly stared at the Doctor for a good long minute, eyes hard and judging. He met her gaze evenly, and after a while she seemed to see something in him that she approved of, because she nodded. "Give me a sec. I'll write down the address."

"Thank you. The reason I thought it best you didn't come," the Doctor added, turning to Ace, "other than the obvious of course – is that Mr Graham doesn't seem to like company very much."

"You saying he'd be overwhelmed by my vibrant presence?" Ace looked slightly hurt, but mostly just amused.

"No – only that my own, equally scintillating personality might be too much for him as it is." He patted her arm with a small smile. "And as much as you don't want to admit it, you are still recovering."

"I've seen him talk down megalomaniacs and dictators of all sorts, and here he is; fussing over me like a mother hen," Ace told Beverly, sighing, and then: "all right, Professor. I'll stay here; look over the files. Try not to get into too much trouble without me."

"And the same to you," the Doctor said with a slight upwards quirk of his mouth, and accepted Beverly's scrap of torn-out notebook paper, standing as he scanned over it. "Aha, excellent. I will be on my way, then."

Ace stood up as well. "Let's go see those murder photos, then."

"Sure. Hey, uh," said Beverly, pausing briefly. "What's up with the blue box?"

The Doctor and Ace exchanged a short glance, and then Ace said, "storage device," just as the Doctor said, "personal possession."

"Right," said Beverly, unconvinced.

"It's a storage device containing my personal possessions," the Doctor corrected smoothly, "now go! Be off with you both! There is work to be done!" He proceeded to comically shoo them out of the room with his umbrella – Ace clutching her bag and giggling as he did so. As she crossed the threshold, and turned back to him, he neatly tapped her on the nose, and shut the door behind him.

"Wow," said Beverly, who was also laughing. "Is he always like this?"

"Worse, usually," said Ace somewhat breathlessly, over the faint sound of something otherworldly dragging itself away from reality in the other room.

Beverly paused and frowned at the now-closed door. "Hey, do you hear that?"

"Nope," said Ace, too quickly, grabbing Beverly's hand and dragging her onwards. "Come on. Crime scene to look over."

They headed down to the forensics lab, chatting morbidly about murder and dead bodies all the while.

"I heard that Will Graham wasn't able to get anything out of this one?" Ace asked as they approached the door to the lab. "Something about him walking straight out of the room without any information?"

"Who told you that – Doctor Smith?" Beverly asked. Ace nodded and she did too. "Yeah. It's actually the first time I've ever seen him, you know, fail to get _some _kind of reading on a crime scene. Poor guy must be really stressed."

"That's kind of inconvenient for us," Ace said, and then grimaced. "Ah – no, not like that; that sounds really bad. I mean, it's bad that he's not feeling great, but –"

"Yeah," said Beverly. "I know what you're trying to get at." She leaned forwards, and pushed the door to the lab open. "But we managed to do all right with catching serial killers before he showed up, so I think we'll do fine. Apart from that, how much do you know about this whole mess already?"

The answer to that was 'not a lot'. The Doctor had been vague about the details, leaving Beverly to fill in most of the blanks – most easily accomplished by showing Ace the evidence.

The photos of the crime scene in question were comprehensive, and the notes that Beverly had made while there were even more so. Ace took maybe fifteen minutes to go over all of it, and then looked up at Beverly, frowning. "...I need to talk to the Professor. Pronto."

"I mean, I _could _take you to Will's place – but I doubt we'd be able to catch up to Doctor Smith. He's got, what, half an hour headstart on us?"

"Probably a lot more than that," Ace said.

"Well, we might end up missing him, even." Beverly gave her a helpless shrug. "Probably best to wait until he gets back?"

"Yeah, screw that," Ace said, and looked down at the picture she was holding in her hands. "I've had enough of feeling useless – I need to do something. And," she added, looking thoughtful, "I think I know _exactly _what that something is..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ace tucked the photograph into the inside of her jacket, and stood up. "Any chance you could give me a lift somewhere? I've just remembered another person that could help us out with the case." She grinned. "Hopefully he won't mind an early-morning visitor..."

* * *

_7.45 AM  
Baltimore, Maryland_

* * *

Ace waved at Beverly as she pulled away, and then set off down the stone path that led up to Hannibal Lecter's house, tugging her rucksack higher up over her shoulder as she went. The house appeared much different in the light of early morning – she could now see in full the light sandstone that made up the front walls and the sweeping, almost gothic, architecture. She could see that some of the front rooms were lit, although the blinds were drawn across them.

She went up to the front door – no doorbell there, only a fancy stag-shaped knocker bolted into the center of the old oak wood. It was pretentious, definitely, but it somehow felt right for the location. It gave off a gothic vibe, much like the rest of the house did – and Hannibal himself, really. She raised it, knocked twice.

Only seconds later, she heard the click of the deadbolt disengaging, and the door opened to reveal the man himself, barely looking ruffled despite the rather early hour of day it was. He was wearing a long dress shirt and an apron tied around his waist.

"Miss McShane," he said, sounding somewhat surprised.

"Hi, Doc," she said, grinning. "Uh, I don't actually have a phone, so I couldn't call ahead, but I had some things I wanted to ask you – about the flower murder thing? If you need me to come back later I will," she added, taking a step back. "...I know it's kinda early."

"Nonsense," he said, and opened the door wider, inviting her in. "I have no patients until at least ten o'clock. There is plenty of time to go over whatever you wish."

"Thanks," said Ace, relieved – it was cold out, and Beverly had already left. If he had declined her, she would have had to find her own way back to town, and she hadn't been looking forward to doing that. She stepped into the house, and he closed the door behind them. She looked around the hall, and removed her rucksack, weighing it in her hands awkwardly. "I feel underdressed," she said, indicating her red leather jacket, tights, and Doc Martens. "Hope I'm not ruining your aesthetic."

"It's perfectly all right," he said easily, and indicated that she could hang her bag on the coat rack next to the front door. "You're looking well," he added, beginning to walk away.

"Am I?" Ace said doubtfully, following him through the foyer and down a long hallway.

"Better than when I last saw you, three days ago," he amended. "I must admit, I am surprised to see you in such relatively good health. Especially considering the severity of your condition."

Ace avoided his probing gaze, and shrugged. "It... wasn't good, yeah. But the Professor knows his stuff, and... well, I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are," he agreed. "Nonetheless, aconite poisoning of that degree is often fatal, although I am, of course, very glad that it wasn't. You're very lucky to be alive still, let alone standing – your Doctor Smith must be a miracle-worker."

"I mean, that isn't far from the truth," said Ace, lips twitching slightly.

"Yes," he said, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, added, "tell me, have you eaten?"

"This morning? Nope," she said. "The Professor had some errand or other, and I got sidetracked with the case, and – well, I'm here now. Y'know the drill."

He nodded. "In that case, would you object to a light breakfast? I was about to prepare my own before you arrived," he gestured to his apron, "and I make it a point not to miss a meal – or allow others to – if I can help it."

"Breakfast would be ace," she said, brightening. "I'm _starving_."

Hannibal stopped walking, and was silent for a moment. "You are not hesitant of dining at my table so soon?" he asked, head cocked slightly to the side. Studying her. "I know I would be, in your place."

"What, you think I'm worried about a little poison? Nah," she said, smiling. "I know it wasn't your fault, Doc. The dinner looked delicious, really, I wish I could have tried it properly."

"Consider this an apology for the events of Wednesday evening, then," he said, and led her through the dining room. He quickened his pace as they passed through. Ace did the same, although she did glance at the carpet. It was utterly spotless – no sign that any blood had touched it at any point. _He must know a _really _good cleaner. _"If you do not have any particular preference, I will make something simple. We don't want to overtax your no-doubt delicate stomach."

"Sounds great. Although," she added, grimacing a little as she glanced around the dining room. There were bowls of fruit on the table, paintings on the walls – no blood visible on the carpet, but she knew it had been there. "I don't really want to eat in here. Sorry. I know presentation is one of your big things, but –"

"Then we shall eat in the kitchen," he said, theatrical in his delivery but utterly serious all the same. He opened the door, sweeping a hand elegantly – _ladies first._ "Presentation is important, of course, but I consider the comfort of my guests to be of the utmost priority."

They entered the kitchen, leaving the heavy darkness of the dining room behind. The change in color scheme was almost startling. Whereas the dining room had been almost drenched in rich, deep colors, and did not have any windows at all, the kitchen was lighter – sleek, almost modern, with plenty of natural light streaming in from the early morning outside.

"Nice," Ace said appreciatively, glancing around and taking in the entire room from wall-to-wall. Her gaze fell upon on the glass double-doors leading to the outside of the house. "You do all your cooking in here?"

"Yes." He followed her gaze, stopping in the doorway. "I suspect that our poison-wielding assassin entered the kitchen when I was not present. Once again, my deepest apologies."

"Still not your fault," sighed Ace. "Whoever it was, they obviously were trying to get the poison in; and I don't reckon you could've done anything about it."

"Nonetheless, I cannot help but feel responsible."

"Well, thanks, I guess." Ace played with the end of her braided hair for a moment or two. "You know, I just realized. All of the plates you served on Wednesday had the exact same food, right?"

"With the exception of Doctor Smith, yes. Everybody was served near-identical portions of _saltimbocca alla romana, _and... hm." His eyebrows raised as he made the connection. "Yes, that is remarkably strange, now that you point it out."

"Exactly. Why go for _me_, when the Professor was the most obvious – and easiest – target? And while we're at it, how'd they manage to work out which plate was mine?"

"The obvious solution to that, of course, would be that I was working with the assassin – or that I, myself, added the poison," said Hannibal, and went over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. "The entire situation rather seems to implicate me, doesn't it? – I'm surprised you aren't more cautious of dining with me this morning."

Ace snorted and grinned. "Yeah, right. Like a cold-blooded killer would confess his guilt to me while preparing to make me breakfast."

He smiled too. "I suggest we stop discussing your poisoning for the moment. For your peace of mind, as well as mine."

"Yeah, fair enough," Ace said. "Still, it's food for thought."

"For thought? I've found I rather prefer food for the body and soul," said Hannibal with a little quirk of his mouth. "Which, coincidentally, is what I hope to be preparing for you this morning. Now, that case that you mentioned before –"

"Oh, right – we got a bit sidetracked there, didn't we? Yeah. It'd be wicked if you could talk it through with me."

"You didn't bring any notes with you?" he said, turning his back to rummage through one of the under-cupboards for utensils. Ace took the opportunity to leap up, seating herself on the edge of a counter.

"Just my thoughts," she said, tapping the side of her head cheerfully, even though he wasn't able to see it. "I didn't have a chance to write anything down, but I bet I can remember it all."

"Excellent." Hannibal produced a frying pan with one hand, and reached over to take a knife with the other. "In that case, you can help me prepare the meal as we converse." He turned, saw where she was sitting, and his expression became entirely unamused. "Miss McShane, kindly use the countertop as it was intended to be used. For example, not a place for the general public to seat themselves at will. There are chairs, or, if you prefer, an armchair in the corner for that."

Ace laughed and slid off the counter, landing easily. "Sorry. Habit. Our kitchen's a lot messier at home." She circled around the central kitchen island to help him pull out various other items of cutlery. "Also, I should probably warn you – I'm a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. This might end up being a mess."

"You cannot possibly create more of a mess than has been made with some of the people I have worked with in the past," he said dryly, and crossed over to begin taking out ingredients from his large, lavishly-stocked fridge. "I'm entirely sure you'll do fine. Take the green cutting board – yes, that one, over there – and find a suitable cutting knife from the rack."

"The color matters?" Ace said, doing so.

"I color-code based on what is being placed underneath my knife," he said, smiling as he set down a variety of fresh vegetables on the countertop. "It prevents cross-contamination between, say, raw meat and fresh vegetables. And speaking of cross-contamination – please do wash your hands quite thoroughly before we commence. I suspect that if you contract food poisoning again, nobody would trust me to serve their dinner for a very long time indeed."

"Wouldn't want to wreck your reputation," she said, smiling, and went to scrub her hands clean in the sink. "So, what're we making?"

"As I said before, something rather simple. A variant of the Italian frittata." He passed her three capsicums – one red, one green, one yellow. "Dice these, please. As small and as even as you can."

"Gotcha," said Ace, twirling the knife with practiced ease, and bringing it down, cleaving the red capsicum in half.

"– and please try not to take my head off," Hannibal requested, taking a hasty step back to avoid the arc of the blade, which had come dangerously close to his ear. "I try not to get blood on the floor if I can avoid it. I'd appreciate if you did the same."

"Sorry," she said, wincing, and began chopping the capsicum in a more sedate, less overtly dramatic manner.

"That's quite all right," he said, and began to crack eggs into a bowl, one after another. "Now, let us turn our minds away from our indistinct, poison-wielding foe, and over to more pleasant things, such as murder. This new body that you've found – tell me more."

"Right, well," Ace said, "I didn't actually get to see it in person – I was still in the TARDIS, recovering, at that point, but the Professor filled me in, and Bev showed me pictures, so I figure I've got a pretty good idea of the details."

"The TARDIS?"

"Oh, it's – kind of like our mobile home? Except a lot bigger than you'd expect." She shrugged. "We travel around in it."

"I see." He nodded. "Do continue."

"So the general gist of it is – another killing with _tons _of blood, took place in a hotel room, flowers everywhere so we're guessing it's the same guy, and the room was locked from the inside so it's basically completely impossible. No windows," she added, "or other exits."

"A locked room murder. Remarkable." He finished cracking the eggs, swirled them around for a second, and then set the bowl aside, moving back to the refrigerator to gather more ingredients.

"That's not even the weird bit," Ace said, and moved onto chopping up the next capsicum. "You're Will's friend, right? How accurate would you say his whole psychic dipping-into-people's-heads thing is?"

"I would say that he has a near-perfect track record thus far," Hannibal said, returning to the counter with a paper bag of mushrooms. He shook out a few onto a cutting board of his own, and pulled out a knife from the rack of them located nearby. "But I would infer that, from your tone of voice, that record has been broken by this particular incident, unlikely as that may seem."

"Right on the money." Ace tapped the knife against the cutting board twice, dislodging stray bits of vegetable that had congealed there. "'Cording to the Professor, he went in there to do his thing, and came straight back out a couple of minutes later, claiming he couldn't get a single read from the scene. It was well weird."

"That _is _very strange, and more than slightly troubling." Hannibal frowned at the knife in his hand, weighing it. "Dear Will's gift allows him the unique ability to sympathise with anyone – no matter how strange, how disturbed, how terrifying. It may not be the healthiest thing, mentally speaking, for him to venture into the darkest of minds that this world has to showcase, but there is no questioning his ability to do so. For somebody to be so far removed from humanity that he is simply not able to connect with them in any way..." He shook his head, and then began cutting the mushrooms into neat, completely even, sixteenths. "Do you know if he obtained any information at all?"

"Well – actually, I think so? He said that it was almost definitely the same guy as last time, but that, uh, the details were obscured. That the 'act itself was impossible', so he couldn't reconstruct it."

"He was able to slot himself into the killer's mind at the power station," Hannibal said thoughtfully. "If it really is the same person doing it, then what has changed since then?"

"You're the psychiatrist; you tell me," Ace said.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Tell me more about the scene. You said there were flowers?"

"Two types," Ace confirmed. "You know how last time, the floor was pretty much entirely covered in blood?"

"Yes. I took the opportunity to look in on it after you had left. Quite impressive."

"_Impressive _isn't the word I would've chosen, but – anyway, this time, our killer got a bit more creative with the blood splatter. I've no idea _how _he did it, but, uh..." Ace trailed off. She put down her knife, wiped her hands on her leggings, and reached into an inside pocket of her jacket to pull out a photograph, laying it on the counter. "..well, here. See for yourself."

Hannibal finished cutting the mushrooms, and then came over to inspect the photo. "Ah," he said.

The photograph depicted the crime scene – a fairly small, moderately cramped hotel room with a pale, clearly dead man pinned against the wall, nailed into place with his arms spread-eagled. There was what appeared to be a note pinned to his chest, with another nail. Below him, dripping blood had been arranged into a pattern of alternating blank and bloody red squares in a rough but visible sixteen-by-sixteen grid. Flowers were arranged almost neatly along these rows.

Ace nodded. "The two types of flowers were white chrysanthemums, and black roses. Sixteen of each, arranged on each side of the 'board'. Not exactly subtle."

"Chess, then," he said, passing the photograph back to her. "Or checkers, since all the pieces in this case are the same."

"It's gotta be chess," Ace said, sighing and tucking the photo away. "Psychopaths always want to be dramatic about it, and checkers just doesn't have the same _style_ as chess does. I'm done with these," she added, indicating the capsicum. "What now?"

He nodded over at a small pile of potatoes that he had left on the counter. "Wash those, and then do the same. As for the murder, I'm inclined to agree." He stood still for a moment, watching her gather up the potatoes. "Do you know what the symbolism of those flowers are?"

"Uh – no," Ace said, picking up her knife again and beginning to chop. "The Professor never got around to telling me. Care to share?"

"Certainly." He picked up the bowl of eggs again, and moved over to the spice rack, scanning the various glass shakers that were arranged there. "Although the white chrysanthemum has many meanings, I believe the one that would be pertinent in this situation is its more archaic form. Truth." He added oregano, then salt, and then milk from a fancy-looking metal jug. "As for the roses – true black roses do not exist, Miss McShane, although very dark red roses that appear almost black can exist, and dye can be used to create an imperfect simulacrum."

"Huh. You learn something new every day, I guess. Here's the potatoes," she added.

"Excellent." Hannibal turned to her, and indicated that they should swap places. "There's a whisk on the counter. Please, feel free to exhaust the last of your energy with the task of beating them."

She saluted, and went right for it. "So, the black roses? There's got to be some sort of thing there, otherwise they wouldn't have picked a type that doesn't actually exist – what do they mean?"

"It may not entirely surprise you to hear this," he said, "but black roses typically symbolise death."

"Oh, nice. Very cheerful." Ace stirred faster, tongue poking out of her mouth slightly. "You know, I wish psychopathic killers would just come out and say what they're trying to communicate, instead of doing this whole symbolic, metaphorical bullshit-fest."

"If everybody were as honest as you wish they were, it would put me out of a job," he commented lightly.

"That might be a good thing, all things considered."

There was a comfortable silence in the kitchen for a minute or two as they both worked independently of each other for a while.

"I must confess, I'm wondering – why come to me?" Hannibal asked eventually, briskly sweeping an amount bell-pepper mixture she had diced up into a measuring cup. He raised it to eye level, and frowned slightly, and then added more. "If it was flower-based knowledge that you were seeking, I'm sure that your friend, the one you call 'Professor', would have been happy to oblige you. His expertise in that area seemed more than adequate. Or, failing that, a simple search online or a trip to the library would have sufficed."

"I mean, yeah, it is. And he would be." Ace paused in her whisking, and shook out her hand briefly before returning to the task. "He was busy this morning, though, and I also wanted to ask someone about some psychiatrist-like stuff."

"You could have asked Will," he said.

"Is this your way of asking me to leave?" she asked, grinning, and ended up accidentally splashing some of the egg mixture over onto the countertop. "Oh, oops..."

"Not at all," he said, and pointed over to the sink without looking. "There are towels over there. I'm simply trying to parse your motives for coming here."

Ace weighed her words as she went about cleaning up her brief spill. "Will... well, he seems like a nice bloke, but he's not as approachable as you are."

"I try my best to be," he said. "As both a psychiatrist and a person." He crossed to the stovetop and turned on the central coil, placing a large frying pan on top. He drizzled oil into it, and after a few minutes, it began to sizzle merrily. "If you wouldn't mind, pass me those potatoes."

"Here you go," said Ace, doing just that.

"Thank you. And I saw there was a note of some sort pinned to our unfortunate victim's chest," he said, switching back to the previous subject of discussion as he began to fry the chopped potatoes in oil. It smelled wonderful, even after just a few seconds. "You've neglected to mention its contents thus far."

"Oh – yeah." Ace shrugged. "Just more cryptic nonsense. It said, 'your move, Time Lord'."

"'Time Lord' is a somewhat unusual turn of phrase. Potentially a title of some sort, although certainly not one I've heard before. 'Your move' is somewhat simpler – no doubt alluding to the gory chess board he had created, and implying that he is playing against this 'time lord' in particular, who he sees as his opponent. Capsicum, please."

Ace passed over the measuring cup full of chopped capsicum, watching as he added it to the potatoes. "Seems likely, yeah."

"Mushrooms, too," he added, and shifted around the vegetable mixture with a long-handled turner. "You know who his 'opponent' is. And you have not told Jack, for reasons I can't quite discern."

Ace started, nearly spilling the cup of chopped mushrooms that she had just picked up. "I – what?"

"Your tone of voice was somewhat indicative. As was your reaction just now." He took it from her, added it to the pan, and then passed her the turner, guiding her in the direction of the pan. "Continue stirring."

"No idea what you mean, doc," she said, acquiescing, but looking uncertainly over her shoulder at him.

"Miss McShane, kindly do not play the fool with me," he said sharply, opening the fridge again. "It does not suit you, and I feel I am owed more respect than that."

"I – fine." She sighed, and poked at the sizzling contents of the pan, almost moodily. "Yeah. I've got a pretty good idea."

"Please, do share. In your own time, of course." He placed a tupperware container with already-cooked sausages piled in it on the counter, and took out a new knife and a red cutting board. "Leftovers," he explained, off her curious look, as he began to cut them into segments. "It wouldn't be my first choice, but I don't have the time to procure new meat at the moment."

"Right," she said, and paused for a second. "The person the killer's referring to; performing to – it's... _probably _the Doctor. Almost definitely, actually."

"Doctor Smith?" At her nod, he nodded too. "I see. And the reason you have not revealed this information to Jack, is...?"

"Personal." Ace shrugged. "Ask the Professor if you really want to know. Not my place to say."

He nodded again; took two slices of bread from the bag, and placed them in the toaster. "Thank you for telling me." They switched places again, Ace passing off the turner to him. He added the sausage chunks to the now almost fully-cooked vegetable fry-up, and then reached over to get the bowl of whisked eggs himself. "I don't believe there's anything else left for you to do. You may sit down if you wish."

"Ta." Ace pulled out a stool at the counter, and elected to sit there rather than on top of the surface, like before. She watched him add the egg mixture to the frying pan, tapping the side of the bowl to ensure all of the mixture dripped out, and then discard the bowl before starting to shift the contents of the pan around once more. "Hang on," she said, laughing as she realized, "you're making scrambled eggs?"

"I am not," he said with an impressive amount of dignity. "What we have been preparing is _frittata_, an Italian egg-based dish –"

"I know scrambled eggs when I see it, mate," Ace said. "Can't pull the wool over my eyes."

He made a tiny noise of displeasure that sounded suspiciously like a huff, and was silent for a moment as he finished cooking. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for him to do so – the pan was hot enough that he had turned it off already within only minutes, and was sprinkling cheese on top of it. He neatly caught the toast as it popped out of the toaster on two plates, and then split the frittata between them, heaping it on top.

Balancing the two plates neatly on one arm, he pulled cutlery out from a drawer before coming around to place one of the dishes delicately in front of her, situating his own breakfast on the other side of the counter. "_Bon appetit. _Although I hope you will wait for me to join you in a moment before starting – would you prefer orange juice or coffee? Or something else?"

"Juice's fine, thanks," she said, inhaling the smell of freshly-cooked eggs and smiling.

He crossed to the refrigerator again, and produced a stainless steel pitcher frosted with condensation. "Freshly-squeezed, just this morning," he told her.

"Cool," she said appreciatively.

"Yes, very." He pulled down two glasses from yet another cupboard, and came to join her at the counter.

They sat there in silence for a moment, and then another. Neither of them made a move to begin the meal – Hannibal waiting for his guest to begin first; Ace waiting for...

"Ah, of course," he said, with a small, rueful smile – realizing. "I forgot. My apologies, Miss McShane – I'll start first, shall I?" Without waiting for a response, he picked up his fork and knife and began to eat.

Ace watched him for a second or two, leaning back on the stool and swinging her feet. "Feeling poisoned yet?" she asked when he was maybe a quarter of the way through his plate.

He gave the question consideration. "Not especially," he said.

"All right. Good enough for me," Ace said, and reached for her own set of cutlery. As Hannibal poured orange juice for both of them, she speared a potato with her fork and brought it to her lips. She ate it, and then grinned at him. "Delicious. Ta, Doc."

"I'm glad," he said, smiling back. She continued eating the breakfast, scooping up eggs and sausage with her fork, and accepting Hannibal's glass of juice with her free hand as she did. "I seem to have forgotten the salt and pepper. Just one moment." He rose from the counter, turning away to retrieve the necessary shakers from the spice rack.

From behind him –

Ace gasped, a sudden, stuttering noise that sounded like she was choking. Almost immediately afterwards, the sound of the glass that she'd been holding shattering – instantly, irrevocably – echoed through the kitchen.

At the sound of the smash, Hannibal turned around.

Ace was still seated at the counter, fork still in hand – although the glass had, of course, hit the floor moments before. All of the color seemed to have drained from her face, and she was staring at the food in front of her as if it had suddenly started moving around on the plate before her.

"Miss McShane?" he asked.

She dropped the fork on the counter, where it landed with a clatter, and rose to her feet abruptly. Her hands were shaking. Her breathing was uneven. "The – the food..."

"Miss McShane, look at me," he said sharply.

She did. Her gaze was wild, almost animalistic, and for a second it almost appeared as if her eyes had gone yellow. But almost immediately, that was gone, and it was replaced by her regular eyes – terrified, horrified, staring right at him. "The – listen, Doctor Lecter; I don't know how, or, or, _why_, or _whatever _it was – maybe it was on Wednesday? Must've been, no other way he could've got into here, you said – you said there was security, so –"

"Calm yourself," he said, concern clear in his voice. "You do not sound well, Miss McShane. Do you believe you have ingested poison once more?" He moved towards the phone. "I will call Jack. He will be able to contact Doctor Smith for you, and –"

She shook her head, violently, and her knuckles whitened against the countertop. "Oh, no, not poison." And here, she choked out a humorless, hysterical laugh. "Whoever tried to poison me on Wednesday? He messed with your fridge. That's not sausage in our scrambled eggs, not normal sausage, anyway." She jabbed a finger at the offending food. "I can taste it, Doc. That's _human meat._"

His hand dropped away abruptly from the phone, and he was silent for a long, long moment – just staring at her inscrutably.

In his silence, her borderline hysteria began to drop away too, replaced by a kind of righteous fury that began to bubble up inside her, tinged with that same lingering horror. "Didn't you hear me?" she asked, clenching her fists reflexively. "I said –"

"I heard what you said." His tone was soft, betraying nothing.

A short silence, and then, "Doctor Lecter, there are _people _in our breakfast."

"Yes," he said simply. Unsurprised.

It took her less than a second to make the connection, and as soon as she did, she lunged for the fork that she had dropped, snatching it up and brandishing it as if it would be any sort of defence against him. "_You – _you _toerag, _I trusted you!"

"You don't now?" he asked. All traces of sympathy, of concern, were gone from his voice, although the mild curiosity that had tempered it still remained.

"You tried to feed me _somebody_," Ace snarled, still looking vaguely ill. "What kind of sick fucking game is this? Where – oh my god, did you – you've been killing people. You've been killing people to eat." Her eyes widened. The expression on her face became, if possible, even more horrified. "Oh hell. You were a surgeon. You've been killing people; stealing their organs; cooking them – _fuck._ You're the bloody _Chesapeake Ripper_."

For a moment, Hannibal almost seemed to be as surprised as she was, and then he regained his composure almost immediately. "My congratulations, Miss McShane. You're far more intelligent than I gave you credit for."

Her expression grew even more grim at this confirmation, and her eyes darted from him, standing behind of the counter with no weapons in hand whatsoever, and then to the door leading out to the rest of the house, only a short distance away from her.

"Running would be most unwise, Miss McShane," he said softly, noticing.

"More unwise than staying in a room with you for any longer than I have to be?" She laughed incredulously and a bit hysterically (although she never would have admitted it), and took a step backwards. "Yeah, _no_. I think I'll be going now."

He didn't make a move to stop her, but the tension in the air inexplicably grew just that bit heavier as his stare intensified. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave."

"Okay, now you're not even _trying _to steer away from the menacing psychopath cliché." Another step backwards. "God, I was hoping you'd at least be a bit original." Another step. Two more and she'd be at the door – but he still wasn't moving to stop her.

She took her chance – lunged for the handle of the door leading to the dining room, twisting it and trying to tear it open.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannibal move, almost dizzyingly fast. In one fluid movement, he snatched up two carving knives from the rack, and vaulted over the countertop with all of the grace of an Olympic athlete, raising the knife in his left hand at shoulder-level – bringing it down towards back. She felt him come at her, rather than saw it, and thought, over a sudden surge of terror and adrenaline, _okay, this is more like it_. Instinctively, she flung herself to the side. Hannibal's knife narrowly missed her head by a fraction, embedding itself in the wood of the doorframe with a sickening _thud. _

She gasped out loud, and scrabbled for the handle again, panic making her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Hannibal smiled down at her with the patience of a favorite uncle, and raised his other knife.

She wasn't fast enough to dodge it entirely this time. It came down with another horrible _thud _that was, this time, accompanied by an equally sickening

_crunch._


End file.
